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 A VISIT 
 
 ^ TO («r^. 
 
 
 --^T OR Gaii^ 
 
 --■' 
 
 !. 
 
 R\ 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE QUESTION. 
 
 BY R. T. K. 
 
 HALIFAX, N. S. : 
 
 PBTNTED AT "MORNING HERALD" STEAM JOB PRINTING OFFICE, GRANVILLE ST. 
 
 1887. 
 
 I, 
 
 
[Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1888, by the 
 
 Morning Hebald Pbintino and Publishing Co., 
 
 at the Department of Agriculture.] 
 
r / 
 
 ptmt to the ^^ring an the ||iiyrle^ 
 
 OR, 
 
 '^ht temperance (Ijuefition. 
 
 7' 
 
 i 
 
 IIP 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE wife's appeal TO LEGISLATURE. 
 
 " Oh for a srleam of liKht 
 
 On the aomo— on the friendly hand, 
 That pours in kindness the burning draught 
 That maketh a desolate land." 
 
 I step from the back door alone, for I cannot explain to 
 my sisters what prompts this "isit to the spring on the hillside. 
 I once looked as carelessly as they do now upon these scenes, 
 but absence has endeared them to me, and their memory is 
 almost sacred now. So I look longingly at the old evergreens, 
 and wish their outstretched branches would hide me from 
 enquiring eyes ; and while I wish I have gained the hiding 
 place, and have only to ascend the hill and stand beside the 
 spring. 
 
 What wonder that my mind goes back to the days of my 
 childhood, as I look upon these scenes. There stands the old 
 tree where I have gathered nuts, and there is the old oak where 
 I played years ago — not so many years ago either, for 1 am not 
 old. This is my first visit home since marriage. 
 
 I love my husband. I wish he did not drink wine, and was a 
 Christian like my father ; but he is a good man, and I dare say 
 he will not be a drunkard, if father does say he is on the road 
 to it. 
 
 And now I stand where the water is falling off a jut of rock, 
 and I stoop and kiss the clear water, though I am not the least 
 thirsty. 
 
 A clear laugh rings out through the woods, and here comes my 
 sisters, my brother, and my husband. " We watched you, we 
 followed you," came in a breath. " And oh, we have such a 
 plan ; we are going around the road to have our fortunes told. 
 
 f 1 
 
 ii,. 
 
OM Mrs. Pliilips is the foi-tiine-toller ; you never hear<l of her! 
 She was ricli once, or lier father was, and lived in the same town 
 wliere you do ; but he took to drink, spent liis money, and at 
 last sold rum to support his family." 
 
 " That is the way .she came to marry Philips ; you know girls 
 generally marry on a par with their fathers and brothers," 
 " That is the way you came to marry such a good noble fellow," 
 chimed in my brother. , 
 
 And then we all laughed and climbed the fence, and were soon 
 in the presence of the fortune-teller. 
 
 Mv husband was introduced as a gentleman to whom mv 
 sister was engaged — while I was a friend — and she was to tell if 
 the fates were for or against their marriai::e ; and she made me 
 interfere with my sister's engagement, and marry my husband, 
 in a way that sent us home almost sure she was a witch. 
 
 The village where my father lives boa.sts of a restaurant, and 
 we pass it on our way home. My husband invites us to call and 
 take a glass of wine. My sister and myself refuse at once. My 
 brother hesitates ; my husband laughs at liis " old-fashioned 
 notions," as he calls them. " Why Ben," he says, " our family 
 have always drank wine, and there is not a drunkard in it." 
 
 The dinner-hour passed pleasantly. My brother and my hus- 
 baiid were all life and wit. I alone felt sad. Oh, why did the 
 .tory of the fortune-teller fall so powerlessly upon the ears of 
 those who needed the warning ? Why did I receive that which 
 might have saved others ? " Even so, Father, for so it seemeth 
 good in Thy sight." 
 
 If pleading headache or heart-ache could have kept my hus- 
 band from the party that night, I certainly should have excused 
 myself ; and happy as I inay have appeared that evening, I 
 would gladly have changed places with the poorest beggar in 
 the street, if by so doing I might have found happiness. 
 
 We returned heme next day, and everything went hs usual. 
 I eould not see the danger and tried to think there was none. 
 Never had an unkind word been spoken to me by my husband. 
 Love had always ruled our home. 
 
 Invitations to Mrs. Morton's party ; we must go of course, and 
 thus it was settled. A friend called that afternoon, and my hus- 
 band w^ent out with him, saying he would come home in time to 
 dress for Morton's, and we would go in the carriage. I had 
 waited some time when my husband's sister, Bessie Melbourn, 
 called, dressed for the ball, and persuaded me to walk with her, 
 as my husband would certainly follow. I decided to do so. 
 
 I went to Mrs. Morton's that evening with a vague feeling of 
 
 tl 
 
 0C( 
 
 M: 
 
unrest. But wliat was 1113' surprise to find my husband there 
 Itcfore me. Wlien 1 entered the sujiper-room, there stood my 
 husband, j^dving V(;nt to a speecli in whieh religion, politics and 
 obscenity each had a place. Imagine my feelings when he 
 tuined and addresseil me in a tone in which droller}', nunnery 
 ami foolishness were mixed. " See here, marm, ^Irs. Morton 'ere 
 says she think I'm rather gifted for a select cij'cle like this — ha.s 
 given some; very judicious hints, very delicate is madame, thinks 
 ma)d)e you'd like to go home," f<nd here he drawieil out his 
 words in indtation of the coaxing voice of Mrs. Morton to per- 
 fection. 
 
 Think you I went home that night co sleep ^ Think you, as 
 I listened to the heavy breathing of liim who had promised to 
 protect me fiom the storms of life, and thought of him as 
 wrecked or stranded upon the shoals of intemperance — think 
 you I could have prayed for the rulers of my liountry ;' Think 
 you I would have changed places with you ? Nay — for all the 
 honors, the homage of this worhl, I would not occupy a place of 
 such responsibility unless I c /uld put down intemperance. 
 
 " Hath the sceptre departed from Israel ? Hath the God of 
 Jacob forgotten ^ Can nothing be done to .save my husband, 
 must he die for the sin of his parents — must he be the victim of 
 h country's mistake ? " 
 
 " What is thy beloved more than another ? Vvlio art thou 
 that shouhlst question thy rulers ? Cm I see my husband 
 ruined? Can I see my children beggared? Nay, but who art 
 thou, a drunkard's wife ? And who made that husband a 
 drunkard ? His parents. And wd>.o upheld them ? 
 
 My country's rulers who cry peace ! pease ! 
 
 And wave a sword high in air ; 
 Nay inoi 2, — suspend that sword 
 
 By a single hair ! 
 
 / 
 
 of 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE mother's prayer ANSWERED. 
 
 It will be difficult for the reader to imagine that twenty years 
 have passed by since the events narrated in the former chapter 
 occurred ; and that Bessie Melbourn there alluded to is row 
 Mrs, Dunkin, and a widow. 
 
 That almost young man is her son. 
 we will judge by their conversation. 
 
 Of their circumstances 
 
6 
 
 "Yes, my son, you will have to hire out, and I hope yon will 
 shun the drunkard's drink, my boy. I have a story to tell you 
 before you go away from home." Will Dunkin looked up to 
 listen. Knoek, knock at tlie door. Will opened it, and in came 
 a gust of wind that sent the ashes out over the heartlj. n,:id tl^'* 
 snioke out into the room, — but for all that Mrs. Dunkin saw a 
 fat, jocular-looking man, and said " walk in !" 
 
 Tlu; man came in, looked aroun<l, sat down, talked of the times, 
 seemed interested in all she said, and at last said he wanted to 
 hire her boy. A man told him he would hire, so he called. 
 
 " It don't make any odds whether I make the bargain with 
 you or him, or both, — my old lady wouldn't care, not a bit," and 
 then he had some fine girls too. " Maybe your boy would take 
 a shine to one of them. Well I don't care if he is a good fellow." 
 And so the bargain was made earnest, tliough tempered with 
 fun. 
 
 " One of my men's coming this way the first of next weok. and 
 he'll call for you. Good bye." 
 
 "Well," said Will, "I don't think he's cross; he seems so 
 pleasant." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs, Dunkin, " he seems pleasant enough ; I only 
 hope he is a temperance man, but he don't look like it." 
 
 " Tell me that story now, mother, and if it is a good one I'll 
 have it printed," said Will, with a laugli, for he had begun to 
 think he was too large to be interested in any story his mother 
 could tell. 
 
 "No, my son, it is ray own story, — your grandfather's his- 
 tory." 
 
 " Whew ! Robinson Crusoe ! let us hear it then." 
 
 " Your grandfather was a doctor, and loved his profession, but 
 he loved money better than anything else. So he opened a rum 
 shop, and his brother, — my uncle, — who was a druggist, kept it. 
 I called it a rum-shop, though it appeared like all those respect- 
 able houses where liquors are sold wholesale and retail. 
 
 Neither my father or his brother drank of the poisonous 
 stuff, while they dealt out miser}' and death in a cold calculating 
 way that I cannot excuse. They went from one step to another, 
 until he became a thief. Not that ho sold the rum or robbed his 
 victims hiinself, but he shared in the profits, and thus brought a 
 curse upon his children. 
 
 Could you have seen my brothers, — first one, and then 
 another, — fall victims to the demon, Intemperance. Could you 
 have seen them as they left this world, cursing not only their 
 parents, but the God that made them, — tormented even in this 
 
 I. f 
 
\ 
 
 I. • 
 
 worlil by flemons that had, as they doclarcfl, come to carry them 
 to liell. Could you liavo seen my beautiful sister fall victim to 
 the .same moMster — Intemperance. 
 
 Not that my father planned this. No, ho would by tearing* 
 down other.s, build his name upon the ruin.s. 
 
 But the mark of Cain was upon him, and sometimes I think 
 the curse of God nnist be upon his fjfenerations forever. But 
 still, my son, 1 know you need not share in tlie curse; you need 
 not be the rum.seller or his drunken victim. I can only pray 
 God to make you the means of wipinj:; out the curse which the 
 drunkard-maker leaves to future ^venerations." 
 
 Will's mother ended her story thus abruptly ; and they both 
 sat in silence, each busy with their own thou^dits. 
 
 She, since her husband'.s death, had sti'u^^Ljled along in lier 
 poverty, — Will attending school most of tlie time ; but now it 
 was necessary that he .should leave home and go to work for the 
 next six months. After that he would attend school another 
 term, where he hoped by hard study to acquire enough education 
 to commence teaching school himself. 
 
 Both Will and his mother decid d that work on a farm would 
 be most beneficial, as it woulii give him plenty of open air exer- 
 cise, be attended with little expen.se, and he would have a nice 
 little sum of money coming in from his wages, with which they 
 could get along nicely the next winter. 
 
 Mr. Wilder, for this proved to be the name of the farmer with 
 whom Will Dunkin had hired, sent for him as he had promised. 
 
 Will not only found Mr. Wilder opposed to temperance, but 
 also desirous of sharing in the profits to be derived from liquor 
 selling. 
 
 lie did not seem anxious to engage in the business without a 
 partner, and finding Will pos.sessed of what he termed '' a busi- 
 ness turn of mind," he soon unfolded his plans to him, which 
 were as follows : — that Will should take possession of a house 
 belonging to Mr. Wilder, and situated upon one of his farms, and 
 open a grocery store, and sell rum over the counter. " Keeping 
 a grocery is respectable, but it's the liquor that brings the 
 ca.sh," said Mr. Wilder, "you'll get rich, and then you'll be 
 able to make your mother one of the greatest ladies in the land." 
 
 Mr. Wilder could not understand why Will's eyes flashed 
 such an angry glance, or why his foot came down with a 
 stamp, for the next moment he answered humbly, though 
 earnestly, "I cannot, Mr. Wilder, I cannot be the rumseller or 
 his drunken victim." 
 
 Soon after this Wilder brought home an Irish boy named Jim 
 
 n- 
 
8 
 
 Mai^'co ; that lie received anfl acc(>[)tt'<l tlir offer which Will 
 Dunl'in refusal, will he sct'ii hy the I'ollnwiiin' couvt'rs.'itiori, 
 
 " I ciiii vi.'i-y ;;luil you don't drinU," suiil Mr, WiliNr, " 1 Unow I 
 have ott'crcd you ]ir|iior a <^ood iimny tlituis, Jim ; well, I liUo to 
 have puopio know they arc welcome, then they can do as they 
 like. 1 hclicve it's better for yon not to drink any kind of 
 liquor, es|)ceiully if you let me plan for you, I'll set you on your 
 feet in no time. ' 
 
 A few dny.s after Mr. Wilder left the depot with a barrel of 
 lloiu" and a cask of molasses, hut came Iiouk; miiuis Hour, 
 molasses, coat, hat or vest, having made a mistake' and left them 
 in a nctijjfhlxjr's door-yard. 
 
 " Arrah," said Jim, the next day, as he was hringini,^ them 
 home, " its a pi<^y the masther couldn't kape his own fate." 
 
 " I've hecn thinkin' ahout the oiler yez made me," said tJim to 
 Mr. Wilder that afternoon, "me boon! for me worruk, and not a 
 thinj,' to be doin' but sit and sill rum." " Well," Ik; continued, 
 " what betther way could I be wantin' to supp(>rt mesilf and me 
 mother ? Sure I've hear<l her say me fatlu r spint all his money 
 for the spirit, an<l why shotddn't I be afther j^^itten it back the 
 same. And I think yez and missus was ri<j;ht whin ye said Bill 
 Dunkin and his mother desarve to starve for not 'eeptin' yez 
 kind otter." 
 
 " So you will take the house, will you ?" asked Wilder. 
 
 " Thardc ye and I will," answered Jim, promptly. 
 
 "The fellow that lived with me year before last built it, and 
 he would have made his 'ned,' otdy his wife was so infernal 
 extravaeant that he had to j;ive up." Mr. Wilder did not think 
 proper to add that debt drove the poor fellow from the country, 
 and left him in possession of a sung little building, which never 
 cost him a cent. 
 
 Years have rolled by, and I have visited the old home many 
 times. It is true I see changes there, but I shall ever look upon 
 it as sacred to the memory of my childhood. 
 
 Ah ! there are changes here too. There is a mound in the 
 graveyard, and though it is at my husband's grave I go to 
 mourn, I have not the sweet thought to solace me, that for him 
 to die was gain. 
 
 Look where I will for comfort, think what I will, it is the 
 drunkard's grave. I am so lonely to-night ; I will go to brother 
 Ben's office, and sit down and talk a while with him. Little do 
 I dream of what this black night shall bring forth, and now 
 after years have passed by, I can only tell it in this way : — 
 
 / • 
 
9 
 
 II 11—11 I " 
 
 . 
 
 Tlai'o U)cy sat in tlio lawyer's ofFico — tlio Inwynr ami the 
 ruiiisolli'r — for brother Hen was a lawyer tlx'ti, and Ned Mol- 
 bourn, ?ny ileceusod husband's biother, was a runisolK'r. Tliero 
 was a liottle of wItio and ^^lasscs on the table. 
 
 " Didn't that fellow lecture last niLfht?" said Ned Melbourn. 
 
 " V»!s, lu! catnc down rather hard on some in this town," 
 answered brother Hen. 
 
 " Didn't he, thou^^Ii ; it has been the custom of our house,' 
 ContiinuMl Abdbourn, " to take Bill Dinier to every teniperanco 
 nieetm^^ in town, and then we would have a good time next 
 night. You sec Bill would deliver the lecture over better than 
 new. \Vc have hail some of our best nights a*'ter one of liill's 
 lectures, but last night there was not anything we wanted to 
 hear again." 
 
 "Nc, I should think not, — it was a string of curses upon the 
 diunkard-maker from beginning to end," said Jjen. 
 
 Ned Melbourn drained his glass. " Wiiy don't vou drink <* I 
 brought a bottle of my best." 
 
 " J am not going to drink anotlier drop of that stuff." 
 
 " Well I thought .so too last night ; thought I'd quit the 
 business." 
 
 " You .stop .selling li(iuor ! No, Satan won't let you. if your 
 father had left you a good honest business you would have left 
 it as I did mine, and I would have been a richer and a better 
 man to-day if I had never left the old place." 
 
 " Yes, but do you know that fellow has an object over and 
 above his business ; ho is heir to half my property, — that is, 
 Bessie's son. You know father disinlierited her when ,sho 
 married Dunkin. But when Dunkin died, father willed Bessie's 
 son half the estate; so he has turned up now just twenty-one, 
 do you see \ And I want you to help me." 
 
 The half drunken man leaned over the table, and whispered, 
 "if you'll help me put him out of the way I'll give you one 
 thousand dollars. We've always been good friends ; I've always 
 helped you when you wanted money." 
 
 Had he been less under the inliuence of liquor, he would have 
 seen enough in his companion's face to silence him. But he .saw 
 nothing, thought of nothing, but how to save his money 
 
 " It's no more than the old man did 
 after she had taken the last she ever drank, — Kate, I mean, 
 you remember she died suddenly. It was Bess who gave it ; of 
 course she didn't know it was poison. Father did it to save the 
 family from disgrace. Now if you can get him here, help him, 
 you know, be his lawyer ; the fellow can be got rid of, and — " 
 
 Didn't I see the glass 
 
 • I 
 
10 
 
 ■'\ 
 
 But the shocked face of the lawyer became stern, and he said, 
 " Stop ! why have I let you go so far ? Have you not beggared 
 my sister ? Have you not ruined her son ? What a cursed 
 business ! How dare the son of a mui'derer claim my sister as 
 his wife, — have we not suffered enough already ? No ! you 
 would drag the whole family down with you ; make a murderer 
 of me ! I tell you I will help that boy if it beggars me." 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 In his native village, some miles aw^ay, on the evening in 
 which the foregoing events transpired, Will Dunkin was 
 delivering a lecture, part of which the reader shall have : — 
 
 " Edward, King of England, brought a poet to Scotland to 
 celebrate his victory over that country. The result was, the 
 Scots took the poet away from him, and made him sing the vic- 
 tory of Bannockburn. Now this in itself was a mighty victory, 
 and is just what we want to do. 
 
 We want to make those who sing to the victory of rum, aye, 
 and dance to the victory of it, — we >/ant to make them sing to 
 the victory of Temperance. But we cannot. Why ? Because 
 this King Alcohol, who has marched into our country, is not 
 conquered yet ; it is true he has received some wounds, but not 
 deadly ones. 
 
 No croNvned head has yet taken the field against him, though 
 'he is our country's mightiest foe. How is he to be conquered is 
 a question so old, so long discussed, the foe so mighty, that some 
 have given over in despair, because they cannot persuade men to 
 be wase. 
 
 Again we are told, when we can arrest the lightning, still the 
 thunder, turn back the sea, then we may hope to persuade men 
 to touch not, taste not, handle not that which burns the brain, 
 ruins the principles, unfits men for heaven, fits them for hell ! 
 
 Then we must look to our Legislature. More than half the 
 numbers which compose that body belong to the enemy. 
 
 What then are we to do ? Was I in the presence of my 
 sovereign, — was that ruler the mightiest monarch earth ever 
 knew, J should not fear to throw myself at his feet, and plead 
 my country's cause. 
 
 I would plead the groans of fathers, the tears of mothers, the 
 cries of the widow^ and the fatherless, and the martyrs who are 
 daily offered upon the shrine of the Demon Alcohol," 
 
 * 
 
 While you are yet speaking another martyr is added to the 
 list of thousands. And there in the gray dawn of morning they 
 found me, — ^palsied in brain and heart, with scarcely more of 
 
11 
 
 
 life than he whose head I had held the long night. This was too 
 much. My over-talked strength gave way. Months passed ere 
 reason returnod. What wonder ! Only a few M^eeks had passed 
 since I had watched over the death-bed of my husband. Alone 
 I had watched him die the most h .ible of drunkard's deaths. 
 And the fear that my son was trea .ling the path that leads to 
 the same end, was enough to set a stronger brain on fire. 
 
 But of all who listened that night, no happier heart was there 
 than that of humble Bessie Dunkin's. " A wise son is the joy of 
 his mother." 
 
 We have seen her son push his way through poverty and 
 temptation, until he had taken his stand, and is pleading his 
 country's cause. And thus her prayer is answered, for she feels 
 that from her name and generation the curse of Intemperance is 
 forever washed away. 
 
 V 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE GROANS OF FATHERS. 
 
 /' 
 
 That a crime has been committed the reader doubtless is 
 aware. But a knowledge of the miserj' with which that event 
 fills hitherto happy hearts, can only be obtained by a visit to 
 an old mansion some hundreds of miles from the scene of the 
 crime. 
 
 In this abode of wealth and happiness the rec^der will meet 
 old Mr. Grey and his daughter Agnes, the betrothed bi'ide of 
 Ned Melbourn ; also Rev. Thaddcus Grey, who preaches in 
 another town, but is now visiting his father and sister. He has 
 thrown off the clergyman entirely, and become a boy at home 
 again, as he says. What with boating, fishing, driving, and a 
 little haimless flirting, he is as much a man of the world as it is 
 possible for a clergyman to become. Just now he has thrown 
 himself down in the cool shade of the syringia bushes, where he 
 would have lain in quiet enjoyment of his cigar, but for the fact 
 that old black Jake had got down on his knees just over the 
 fence, the other side of the bushes, and was pouring forth his 
 grievances into the ears of our common Father, thus : — 
 
 " Lawd, we's got de greatest trouble down heah on dis buf ul 
 earf you has made. We spected de raillenium right off when 
 'Merican slabery were done gone 'way. But how could de Lawd 
 Jesus reign on dis earf when 'twas cursed wid rum. O bressed 
 Lawd, I was 'joiced when me and de little qpes all got free and 
 
12 
 
 »•> 
 
 \ 
 
 ^ » 
 
 togedcr agin. But now, bressed Lfuvd, dem hoys gits drunk, 
 and dey is te!i times wus 'an it' do 'Mericans luid uni all agin, 
 just on 'count of dis cursed rum. () L;ivA-d, if yo wants to specily 
 bress dis earf, do send de Spivit and tell temperance folks what to 
 do. Amen. Lawd, prease do help us 'bout de rum, cos dem 
 as wants to help don' know nuffin what to do." 
 
 As the poor old negro ended his prayer, the Rev. Thaddeus 
 Grey, who had been a listener, communed thus with liimself : — 
 ■* Well, it's passing strange ; all nations, kindred and tongues are 
 praying for the same tiling. I don't know what I am to do ; I 
 cannot preach without iny wine, — that is certainly true. I have 
 tried to abstain, God knows." 
 
 Yes, God alone knows, for you take care nobody shall profit 
 by the lesson you have learned. Take care, brother ; old Mr. 
 Marven blames you for his son's downfall, and you told him you 
 did not order him to take laudanum, you only advised him to 
 take a little wine just as St. Paul did on one occa,sion. Oh 
 shame, brother ! If that honored saint had given advice followed 
 by such results, he would liave gone on his knees before the 
 churohes, and the story of his repentance and humiliation would 
 have been left upon record. 
 
 You advised a little wine, — he drank a little in your study, 
 went into the pulpit, preached the sei'mon. He told you he was 
 too tired to preach. Tired ! he wanted rest, not wine. He took 
 wine again, th„n brandy. When he fell, you said, " Ec or fellow, 
 I feared he M^as not the right stamp. I feared he had not the 
 firm principles necessary for so great a work. I hope it will be 
 for the glory of Christ's kingdom." Then cast him off. You 
 never gave him your hand ; yon never said, " Overcome, brother, 
 we will overcome together." Time passed. He became a sot ; as 
 much higher than the common drunkard as he had been before, 
 so much loAver he became. At last wdien rum was refused, he 
 took the laudanum you did not order. Death followed. 
 
 But on this bright morning, the veil which hides the future 
 has not been lifted. , There is nothing to tell the father of that 
 which is so swiftly and surely coming upon his children. Both 
 to be consigned to the maniac's cell. The son never quiet except 
 when with pencil or chalk he is scribbling upon the floor of his 
 cell the doom of the drunkard. The daughter, gazing upon an 
 imaginary wine-cup, and protesting, " I never tasted wine." So 
 old Mr, Grey, dreaming of the happiness and safety of those two 
 children so dear to him, praised God for deliverance from evil. 
 
 " What reason I have to bless God. He has preserved my 
 
13 
 
 h 
 
 family from the curse of Intemperance, while I sec so much of 
 the Gvil effects of this vice around me." 
 
 " What shall I render Thoe, O God, for all Thy mercies ? " So 
 mused old Mr. "Grey, little di'eaming of the habit which was fast 
 gaining the mastery over his loved son, which was so soon to 
 ruin his bright prospects. At first oidy whispers came, too soon 
 followed by himself, for he could not bear the disgrace, so he 
 came to hide in the old home which he hai.1 left so happily, — 
 bringing despair with him, for he had thrown o<T the hope of 
 reforming. Every door of usefulness he looked upon as closed 
 to him. 
 
 Friends who would have sympathized with him lie treated 
 with coldness. Thus, shut up alone with himself, reason forsook 
 lier throne, and he became a maniac. 
 
 Friends' mourned with the aged parent, and the beautiful 
 Agnes Gi'ey feels sorry that she must leave home so soon. She 
 will coax her dear father to go with lier when she is married. 
 She know%s Mr. Melbourn will, be glad to have him in their 
 home. 
 
 Dream on, fair girl, a serpent is in thy path, — you too must 
 fall victim. Nay, father, place not thy att'ections on things of 
 earth. Ask not, why hast thou done this ? You have prayed 
 for the cause of Temperance, the cause nnist have its martyrs. 
 " What Is thy beloved more than another ? " Did not the right- 
 eoflsness of the Redeemer prompt his enemies to put him to 
 death ? 
 
 Yet by so doing they carried out the plan of redemption, and 
 helped to clothe the world with that very righteousness they so 
 hated, — the righteousness of Christ. So must Intemperance 
 have its victims, its thousands of martyrs, and through their 
 blood must temperance wade- to victory. May such thoughts as 
 these comfort thee, poor father I 
 
 One morning as old Mr. Grey read the morning paper, an 
 announcement met his eye which made him drop the paper and 
 groan. The next moment, thankfulness filled his heart. " She 
 is saved; O Father, I thank thee, but how shall I tell her?" 
 Aye, tell her, old man, but know th:it henceforth a maniac's cell 
 shall be her home. Again he read : — 
 
 "HORRIBLE MURDER AND SUICIDE. 
 
 Yesterday morning it was discovered that Lawyer Blakeny 
 was murdered in his office on No. — , — St. Detectives were on 
 the alert for the muiilerer, but no clue was discovered until 
 to-day, when Mr. Edward Melbourn was discovered hanged in 
 
r 
 
 / 
 
 ll ' 
 
 A 
 
 14 
 
 his own house. In his pocket was found a written confession o^f 
 the murder of Blakeny. In his confession he coolly states his 
 reason for the act, and says he first got angry with him because 
 he (Blakeny) would not drink, and then he would not promise to 
 help him murder his nepbew, who, it seems, is heir to half the 
 property which was in his possession. 
 
 The murder was first discovered by the widow of a brother of 
 the murderer, and a sister of the murdered man. She has been 
 in a state of delirium ever since. It is thought when she 
 recovers she will be able to throw more light on the facts already 
 stated. As she left home early in the evening, and as her bonnet 
 and shawl were found in a closet opening from the office, it is 
 supposed she stepped into the closet when Melbourn came in, as 
 she had reasons for not wishing to meet him. 
 
 Later, we learn the nephew is no other than Mr, Will Dimkin, 
 the famous temperance lecturer. We have it from good author- 
 ity that Melbourn has .been in a state of partial drunkenness for 
 a week, and no doubt remains that he was under the influence 
 of strong drink when he committed the mnrder. The death of 
 Melbourn will put our lecturer in possession of a vast amount of 
 what he calls the ' Demon Alcohol.' " 
 
 " Oh, dear, what can the matter be, 
 What will he do with his rum ?" 
 
 "Veil, now^ ril tell you vot he'll do; he'll go up on der ruf-of 
 der houfe und call town vire from hefen like as vat dem 
 werses in de Biple dells 'bout Paul." 
 
 " Pshaw ! now Dan you'd better talk 'bout what you knows, 
 'twas Moses." 
 
 " Yes, so 'twas, — Moses and 'Lias." 
 
 "Well, I reckon if you fellers means Dunkin and Melbourn, 
 the heirs to that hotel there, if Dunkin calls down fire 'twill 
 burn Fred up, for he'll be too drunk to come out, ha ! ha ! " 
 
 While this talk was going on, Dunkin and Melbourn were 
 planning what to do with the liquor. "Come," .said Will, "you 
 had better help me, Fred ; be a man, don't care who sees you ;. 
 it will give you strength ; we will turn it into the river." 
 
 { 
 
16 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 i 
 
 THE TEARS OF MOTHERS. 
 
 And now, reader, let us go back to Jim Magee, the Irish boy. 
 It is Safcurda}^ night, and he is, with Mr. Wilder's help, carrying 
 in his first cask of rum. Mr. Wilder is under the influence of 
 something he has obtained at the numerous places he lias taken 
 Jim, to show him what to do when he sets up for himself, the 
 following week. "Now Jim, that rum will bear watering ; you 
 had better draw some otf in jugs and bottles, and water it 
 ' discrately,' as the Paddy said." Jim opened his eyes wide, and 
 said, " why, .shure, does the rumseller chate them as dales with 
 him that way ? I was brought up honest, shure." " Ha ! ha ! 
 you'll get over that. I'll look in again after tea," said Wilder. 
 
 After Mr. Wilder had gone, Jim began to look around for 
 somethino- to kindle a fire with, for the autumn nio-hts were 
 cold. Until now he had not realized his position. To pay for 
 hivS board or cook for himself. But then he would not be alone ; 
 customers would be calling, and then it would be so grand to 
 have a place of his own, so Mr. Wilder had said. " So faith, I'll 
 cook me own and ate loike a gintleman ; I'll be indipindint, 
 I will." 
 
 Alas, for poor Jim's independence ! He soon found he had 
 nothing to cook, but a barrel of rum, and no excuse for cooking 
 that, for Mr. Wilder had already told him it was too strong ; and 
 if it was necessary to boil it down he had neither pot nor kettle. 
 
 " What, not opened yet ! You are a smart fellow. Here I've 
 brought Sam and Ike, and four or five others are coming." It 
 was Mr. Wilder's voice that roused Jim from an unpleasant 
 reverie into which he had fallen. 
 
 " Shure, faith, and I didn't expect anybody to-night to buy 
 rum, — not before Monday." 
 
 " Well, we'll open it," and Mr. Wilder caught the axe that Jim 
 had been splitting sticks with for his fire, and without further 
 notice, broke in the head of the cask, exclaiming, " here, boys, 
 help yourselves !" 
 
 While the boys are helping themselves to the liquor, we will 
 visit the homes of some of them 
 of Isaac Randal, or Ike, as he is called by his set. 
 
 What ! the wheel is not going to-night. I wonder what may 
 be the aiatter with Mrs. Randal ? She may not be sick, — she 
 may be patching Ike's clothes. Oh no ! he docs not wear patched 
 clothes. We will go in at the back door, she will excuse us ; it 
 
 We will first go to the home 
 
16 
 
 '^ 
 
 is no uso to knock, she will not hear us, for she is lyinj,' i*!s»:in- 
 sible upon the loun}jfe in the hall. 
 
 We will go back a few years. Lottie Burns had been well 
 brought up, married early in life, made a good match, — for P^lick 
 Ran(hd • 'as the son of wealthy parents, and he also inherited a 
 fortune from his grandfather. What better prospects could any 
 one wis]) ! But alas ! that which ruins like a blight swept over 
 them. Business was neglected, money squandered ; the gfvmeing 
 table had its share, but rum can-icd him to that table. He was 
 ruined, soul and body. Death called f r him, and some said it 
 was a pity he did not die V)efore. 
 
 And so it was, if all the misery caused bv stronij driids had 
 died with him, — but that could not be. He had drank himself 
 to death, but he had left those behind to suffer. That carpet 
 taken up and sold tells a tale of want and suffering. That boy, 
 almost man, idle while his poor mother spins. How she would 
 hide the truth of their pov'erty ; and he the prou(' son of proud 
 pare)its, now gone with the last quarter to pu. chase something 
 for supper, or ratlier dinner, for he went out early this morning; 
 and she has not seen him since. 
 
 She was sick from over-anxiety about him before he went out, 
 now she lays in that death-like sleep, to be awakened Ly his . 
 drunken song, when he comes home from Jim Magee's, or rather 
 Wilder's rumshop. 
 
 Such is the story of many a wife and mother, who, but for 
 srtong drink, ujight be happy. 
 
 "I am glad you have come in out of the rain," said Mrs. 
 Wilder, one Sunday. " Where have you been, you ain't wet 
 either ? " 
 
 "I> by golly, I've been to prayer meeting; I was just praying 
 when that ffrst clap of thunder can^e , maybe I was wicked. 1 
 was just thanking God for all the good things he has given me, 
 and most of all for brandy." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Wilder, you ain't been over to Jim's .shop spending 
 Sunday among a set of rowdies ! Now I must say if you've 
 got a failing it's that you ain't particular in the company you 
 keep, and if this should get out it would be a disgrace, I say." 
 
 " Well, there wasn't any women there to tell it ; that is, nobody 
 but Joann Rollins and Abby Welch, faith ! I believe they were 
 there when I prayed, though." 
 
 '• Well, I'm sorry ; there is Abby, she lives at Squire Daj'id'-^'in's, 
 and she'll tell them, Mr. Wilder, and they are such temperance 
 folks too." 
 
 ^'i 
 
17 
 
 " No, she don't live there, she's going on the mountain looking 
 for a place." 
 
 " Well, I am glad she don't live tbc-ve ; T hope it won't got out, 
 that's all." And she took up the newspaper. " Well it heats 
 all," she continued, "how those fellows get into the papers; he is 
 going to lecture in the old meeting house next week, so this 
 paper says. Old Mrs. H.Jl says he and Fred Melbourn turned 
 all tlieir mm into the river; she saw an account of it in some 
 Tem[)evance paper. She says, Melhourn's a son of the woman 
 v/ho foimd Blakney murdereil. Don't you remember, she went 
 crazy, or nearly so ? Tins son of her's was a great drunkard. 
 She's only got three children. 
 
 Th(i girls went to their grandfather's when she got so poor. 
 Old Mrs. Hall says it seeins queer how all the jiroperty came 
 back to her — or her children — it's all the same. She says it's, I 
 don't know how much, l)ut it's thousands of dollars, besides 
 houses. Dunkin will stop at Davidson's. By the way, Mr. 
 Wilder^ did you ever settle that little diflerence that wa.j between 
 you ? ' 
 
 '■ I think there was a dollar or two between ns." 
 
 " Well, you had better pay it, if it is not outlawed ; maybe 
 he'll leave the account at Davidson's, and you know they are 
 people of honor, -and Mark might leave Eliza. It would not 
 do to lose such a match for a dollar or so. Mr. Wilder, I think 
 yon had better go to the lecture and invite Mr. Dunkin home 
 with you ; it will look well, as he used to live here when he was 
 a boy." 
 
 " It's hard work for my old limbs, this pickin' up wood. Shure 
 I thourrht to have Jim with me this winter, but he thinks he's 
 doin' better work. Curse the man that led him into it, 'twill be 
 the ruin of him, that's shure." And the face of the old woman 
 took a hard expression npon it. On that face was imprinted a 
 record of toil and sufferini^ such as is known only to the wives 
 and motliers of drunkards. 
 
 " Good mornin'. Misses Magee." 
 
 " Good mornin', IMisther Ragan, — did your boy hear from 
 Jim ? " 
 
 " Ay, more'an hear'n from 'im, he seen 'im." 
 
 " And what did he say of him ? " 
 
 " He says he thinks, bein' as he's savin', and don't drink him- 
 self, he'd make a good thing of it if Wilder 'ud let him alone, 
 but lie spends most of his time in the shop, and gets drunk and 
 wastes the rum, andfol 
 
 n 
 
 profits 
 
 say 
 
18 
 
 
 , ^j 
 
 ' \\ 
 
 w 
 
 " More's the pity it ^yaren't all wasted ; " and with tlione words 
 the old woman picked up her anus full of wood and walked 
 slowly homeward. 
 
 "Well, Trossie, you have come home." 
 
 " Yes ; Reve.s did not make my boots, as he promised. Where 
 is Sylvester ? " 
 
 " He's at Magee's." 
 
 " Does he go there much, Bertha ? " 
 
 " He is there most of tlio time." 
 
 " Oh, for shame ! wdien he might give his money to you, 
 Bertha ; you could do so much for the family." 
 
 The two sisters were an exact contrast as they stood there. 
 Tressie flushed and angry, at the conduct of her brother, while 
 her older sister's pale, sad face told a silent story of its ov/n. 
 
 " He was a good boy once, he would be again if it v/as not 
 for rum." 
 
 " He might let rum alone then. I can't excuse him or I won't." 
 
 Bertha did not reply. She was the oldest of twelve children 
 left motherless at an earl}' age. She had taken charge of the 
 whole family. Her father was a hard working man, and would 
 fain have made his son the same ; but Magee's or rather 
 Wilder's rumshop had done its work. 
 
 " I think you had better try to do without the boots. I lack 
 two dollars of enough to pay for a barrel of Hour." 
 
 " Well, i'lther, I can't go out to work any more if I can't get 
 the boots, and Bertha needs my earnings." 
 
 " Come, Ves, bear a hand, I know you'll b"!at me, it's so long 
 since I played a game of cards/' said Mr. Wilder, and he laid 
 down four dollars. 
 
 Sylvester Young gracefully covers the money. When the 
 game was over, Mr. Wilder pocketed eight dollars, saying, 
 " Never mind, Ves, you'll beat me next time." 
 
 " Uncle John's coming next week," said Mr. Wilder one day 
 to his wife. "I've got a letter from him. I suppose he'll call 
 me Georgie, and give me no end of good advice, just as he used 
 to do. Poor Uncle John." 
 
 Poor George Wilder, how unlike the good little boy, brought 
 up by a Christian man, is the drunken George Wilder. But 
 people .said he did not drink to hurt him. It was true he got 
 drunk sometimes ; but then, it made him keen. He never lost 
 money by it. 
 
 He was rich in this world's goods, and friends gathered around 
 him. Stronger men who never got drunk, called him a little 
 
 
!»'> 
 
 X o 
 
 fast. Weak men hold him up to prove tlwit a man inij^'ht n^et 
 ftrunk, and yet be respectahle. R or men like Mr. Younjj; 
 ffroaned over tlic wrecks his influence mad(; ; for to all appear- 
 ances Sylvester Youniij might have l)een the .stay of his father 
 and sisters, out for Magee'.s runishop. Axid this, Mr. Wilder well 
 knew. 
 
 And now he wished Uncle John would do anything else but 
 come to see him. But his shame and sorrow cuuld not keep Mr. 
 Bretman away any more than it could keep George Wilder from 
 drinking when he could get liquor to drink. So he came. 
 
 He was a bright, smart, old man, and soon saw how matters 
 stood. He did not worry Geoi'ge with remonstrance ; advice 
 he knew would be useless. H' he could stop the sale of 
 liquor there; if he could -avo that poor boy who sold it, his 
 visit would do some good. But his heart ached for his nephew, 
 and ho exclaimed in anguish of spirit, " Why. oh Lord, why is he 
 so fallen ?" and he might have received for an answer, " What 
 is thy beloved more tlian another ? The earth is polluted by this 
 curse." '' Why should he escape wdiilo others fall ?" So the old 
 man nerved himself for liis first visit to a rumshop. 
 
 Not tliat Uncle John feared to visit this don of Satan ; but 
 he felt a sort of loathing and dread. Not that he feared, for lie 
 was a bold fearless man, and when the voice of duty called he 
 never faltered, He know that the love of money had tempted 
 the poor ignorant boy into the business, and the same passion 
 kept him not above the love of drink, but from it. " He is too 
 mean to drink," said Mr. Wilder. While he taught Jim that he 
 was free hearted in giving him such a chance to make money. 
 
 So Jim admired drunl.^rds, because they helped him. He did 
 not want that old " temperance sneak " coming around the shop. 
 
 And now we will go back to the evening when Mr. Wilder 
 rolled in the first cask of rum. Jim taught Wilder a lesson that 
 evening that made him rather more cautious. So he had the 
 pleasure of drawing the liquor and waiting upon his custom- 
 ers himself. But it w^as understood that Mr, Wilder kept the 
 money, for of course it would not be safe with Jim, " Somebody 
 might murthur him for it ; shure he could trust his dearest 
 friend," so. said Jim, But there w^ere those who said otherwise. 
 And Jim himself had hinted something about settling ; wanted 
 to know how much money he had made. 
 
 So Mr. Wilder set his head to planning how he could get rid 
 of Jim with the least trouble. 
 
 One morning he au vised Jim to get a new suit. " You can get 
 them at Hawkins's ; he has clothes that will fit you. I'll pay for 
 
20 
 
 1" 
 
 >h 
 
 n 
 
 r\ 
 
 tliein, so lie can't clioah you ; ycni can't trust tlio l)Ia(;^-le;^." So 
 Jim said lio'il get them, " if it vvass only to plase siili a noice 
 jintl<i)i!in as yc are." 
 
 Two or thrrc Jnontlis pn^sed by and Hawkins liOLjan tc wonder 
 wliy Muifce did not pay him i'ur his ch)th(:s and hoots. So duo 
 day vvlien Mr. Wilder was in his store, he mentioned tlie deljt, 
 and asked why Jim did not pay l)im. 
 
 " i»('cau>e he ain't _i(ot anything,' to pay; hv. . ,os me and I 
 suppose I'll have to lose it." 
 
 Hawkins did not believe a word of it. l[e W(jnid have his 
 pay. " See if he wouldn't." So he quietly left the account with 
 S(piir(! ])avidson. Tie did not say nnich. He g-uesHcd Davidson 
 COuM sec " wdiu:]j way the wind bluw." 
 
 Mr. Wilder tlujught to (juell Paddy's rage by a joke, but he wa.s 
 mistaken ; Jim's wron<rs were too jxreat. 
 
 . " And its thf! dape sa*; ye manes whin ye says the bi^; dhriidv ; 
 faith and if ye'll be afther payin' me for the little dhrinks, I'll 
 thaid'C yees." 
 
 Wilder did not know what to do, lie had made up his mind 
 not to give up the money ; so lie did not do anything but take a 
 long drive on the morning of the execution. Now it happcmed 
 that Uncle John walked over to see Jim on the same moi-nint;. 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MRS. RANDAL BECOMES A AVRITER. 
 
 "I've been over to Lottie's. I'll never own lier for an}- rela- 
 tion of mine again," said JS'ellie Uandal. 
 
 " Why, what's up now^ ; vou used to tliink Elick's wife just the 
 thing. What is it, Nellie?" 
 
 " What's up ! Why all her carpets are up ; there's nothing in 
 the house fit to look at." 
 
 " Well, she can put them down again." 
 
 " She's sohl everything ; she says she had to sell her carpet to 
 pay for bread. She didn't want to tell me, but I made her; and 
 she says Isaac must go to w^ork." 
 
 " Isaac go to work !" exclaimed old Mrs. Randal ; " and named 
 for your father too ! if Elick had lived he would have had an 
 education, but now he'll have to delve, delve, delve. That's just 
 the way she's planning ; she ain't spun any for a month, she told 
 me so the last time 1 was thei'e. I expect she's planning to 
 take his earnings." 
 
 
 r 
 
 ,y 
 
 7" 
 
21 
 
 " Tf I can only finlsli tins story. Mr. Lishon says thore is 
 rrood tliou^'lit in it. Wliat an cfl'tut it cost mo to tfll him, 1)ut 
 liis t'licouriiffiii'.;' wonls Fully repaid me." 
 
 P(jor licttio, .sliu kufW his hi'iii't was IftVLft' i!nouy;h to chfrish a 
 friendship for her hiisltand ; and to rt'incndier him whon ho was 
 .so fallen and doi^radctl tliat all other fiienils shrank from him. 
 So she t'(>lt that Mr. Lishon was the friend she needed. \Vh(»n 
 he called and kindl}' en(|uired aliout her l)oy, .she fi'iuikly told 
 him her fears concerning' him. 
 
 That it Wfis plainly her dnty to send Isaac fron) home, was 
 pointcMl out hy this hiend. 
 
 " ^'on cannot keep him from had company hy your influence. 
 I think you had hotter tell him he must leave hom(\ and I'll Just 
 step in and make him an offer. On the farm ho will do hotter; 
 I'll encoura<:,ai him," said Mr. Lishon. "Don't fret; wife saya 
 you worry too n)uch ahout him : come o\'er when you ;j;et that 
 story done, and we'll see what we can do witli it." 
 
 Is'ow Mr. Lishon's hrother was a, publisher of a paper. So 
 Lfcttie Bui-ns' first stoiy found its way into the world without 
 niucli trouble. 
 
 " But how did she come to write ? she'd bettor been crotcheting 
 tidies or ppinnin'," said old Mrs. Randal. "I've no faith in her; 
 ten to one she'll turn out bad yet. Temi)tations is just what 
 they was when St. Paul cautioned folks about widilers." 
 
 We will let old Mi-s. Randal enjoy her own ((pinion, while we 
 so back to the time before Mr. Randal had fallen so low. For 
 years he was neat in appearance, though a confii'u 1 druidcard, 
 and .so reduced in cir«umstances that he could a f'(.rd but one 
 collar. Now as ho could not appear on the street without one, 
 his wife was called to do up a collar at very unrea.sonable hour.s, 
 for he liked to appear well. 
 
 One mornino- he bustled into the kitchen with " Lottie, Mr. 
 
 Wilder is u'oiim to iN for a barrel of tlour, and I am 
 
 going with him, and I want this collar done up quick." 
 
 So Mrs. Randal washed and ironed the collar in a very few 
 minutes, — but of course it did not look well. She was ashamed 
 to offer it to her husband. 
 
 She walked to the window wfitre ho stood, and said, '' Here, 
 Elick, is your collar, — it don't loo'.c well ; I wish you would get 
 more collars, then I could make them look better." She lioped 
 to pacify him by this apology, but oath after oath fell from his 
 lips, and the collar, after flying two or three times over the floor, 
 which did not improve its appearance, was buttoned on, and 
 Randal and Wilder drove off. 
 
 f 
 
 y 
 
 kv?rv- 
 
 1 
 
 1, 
 
\ 
 
 
 .' I 
 
 w 
 
 It 
 
 When Ikt liuslianfl lm<l j^onc, I^ettio wont into tlio sittin;]f-rof)ni, 
 and threw Ikm-suU' upon thu loun^'o, ami Inn-ietl lit-r face in her 
 ham Is. 
 
 Oil, why (Ful sh(5 hav(! ho nnioh trouble ? Why so hard a fate ? 
 And the future, what clouds rested thero ? 
 
 When the flood of tears which followed this solf-quoHtioninq 
 had suhsldod, sho raised her head, and the first thini( she saw 
 was a sheet of white paper on the ce'titre tahle. It looked so 
 calm and peact'ful lyin<^f tht;re that almost U!U'onsciously she laid 
 her hand upon the paper. As she sat there, careh'^sly passing 
 her liand over the white paper, sho could not tell how, but sho 
 received an impression that she should in the futui-e become a 
 writer. Slit; never knew how, but she could joyfully and cer- 
 tainly say, " I shall yet be a writer!" 
 
 'J'hen a dream came to her, a lon<j[ forirottcn dream that had 
 once driven all care and anxiety from her mind. Sho saw aj^ain 
 the wild muddy waters form into waves and roll to her feet. 
 
 Fear held her fast, — no, not fear, but hope, for beyond she saw 
 a beautiful .sea. Oh, how brightly the sun shone there, ami, as 
 she stretched forth her hands toward the beautiful place of rest, 
 a.s she thought it, the scene changed, and she was at her old 
 home, — not in the house, but in the gn^en fiehls, with the blue 
 sky over her head, — and there were hundrcls of human beings 
 looking toward her. Some had no coats, some had no shoes, 
 some no liats. 
 
 It was a picture of the outcasts of the eartli, and she was 
 pouring water from a white pitcher into a cup which each one 
 held in his hand. And she heard acjain tfiat sweet encouraiTfinij 
 voice, as it said, " Fear not, sister; you shall yet give bread to 
 the nations." "Yes, I shall yet write, and men shall read," she 
 said. But she could not then say, " I can write." But now the 
 darkest day of her life had passed. She had found a " silver 
 lining " to every cloud in her sky. 
 
 • • • • * <n » • • • • • 
 
 " Well, wife," said Mr. Wilder, one day, " what do you think 
 Fraser told me old Davidson savs about me, the mean old sneak ? 
 If he is going to take sides with every Irishman in the place, let 
 him. I shan't have anything more to do with him. Fraser says 
 he don't want Mark to come here." 
 
 " Well, I think you carried things too far with Jim Magee," 
 said Mrs. Wilder, for she could not willingly give up her 
 favorite scheme of a match for Eliza, and certainly she could 
 not have chosen a better young man than Mark Davidson. 
 But the chief end of Mrs. Wilder's hopes was equality Vvrith the 
 
\ 
 
 so 
 Mi.l 
 
 
 Davidsons. For hor part.slio ponld not see wlmt lictter tlic 
 Davidsons were tiian tlit- WiWcrs, if they (Tul lu'lon;^' to tlio 
 churcli ; an<l she ci'itainly wisluMl tliut Mark Davidson nii;;lit be 
 n driinkurd if lio was not }'oin<4 to nwirrv Kli/a. 
 
 l'.)or Mrs. Wilder, slu; couM driidc licr ;.,'Inss of lirnndy ; so 
 could ICliza ; so could John and the whole family, for that matter, 
 dowii to littl(! three-yoar-old Tom, couM each driidv a i)ro{»or- 
 tionate sliare. " It had certainly saved Tom's life," so said Mr. 
 WiMer, "and they were a perfectly healthy family ; all had good 
 sense." And that went a loni^ way in favor of hrandy. 
 
 Mr. Wilder vvisluMJ that Mark mi;^ht he a druidvard, too; and 
 wishin}^^ enderl in plotting, as was usual with him. 
 
 Sylvester Yoiin^f left Ma<:foc's that niijht with a sort of reckless 
 remorse in his lu'art. 'J'houuhts of his father and patient Uertha 
 filled his heart with sluune. He had lost his money, and there 
 was no help for it. But he vowed to pay old Wilder, " if it 
 wasn't till doo esday." If he formed any j^ood resolves, he did 
 not say so, and for^'ot them when John Downs called the Jiext 
 evenintjf and told him that all the bovs were LCointr to " father'.s " 
 to learn to play cards. 
 
 " Father s an old sailor, you know, ami he says it is a shame 
 for Wilder to cheat the boys out of their money, and he's i^oing 
 to teach us how to beat him. " 
 
 But before Sylvester was skilled enouu;h to win l)ack his 
 money, the shop was shut up and Jim Magee in jail. 
 
 The boys muttered curses ovi'r the fate of poor Jim. Sylves- 
 ter Youi.;t vowed aj^ain and a<j;ain that he would have revencfe. 
 "I mirfht have bought Tress a pair of boots, or given the money 
 to father or Bertha." But he never thought of that when he 
 had money. 
 
 About this time Mr. Downs opened a shop for John. "He 
 won't do anything at work ; maybe his bent 's for trade, and 
 rum 'a a good thing to 1>egin on. When 1 went to sea I drank 
 buckets on't ; never hurt me, but then I think we'd better teach 
 John to be ' temprit.' " 
 
 " That's it, exactly. It's treadin' in his grandfather's footsteps ; 
 don't you know when you came a cortin' me you allays got plenty 
 to drink. Not as father made a pint of sellin' it the year round ; 
 he used to talk of puttin' up a shop, and he'd made money faster 
 if he'd a done it. He'd just git a punshion now anil then and 
 sell till it was gone," continued old Mrs. Downs, " but mother 
 was opposed to it so, and fretted so much about it, he never built 
 the shop and finally gave up sellin'." 
 
24 
 
 Dm ^' <^' 
 
 ' » 
 
 ■/ 
 
 I.-, \ 
 
 There had boon a tiia.e when Mrs. Downs clasped her first-born 
 son to her bosom, while her heart blosson:ed thick with the plants 
 of hope. Oh tliat she hiu^ raised her voice to Heaven, and cried 
 with one of ol'l, " Teach us what we shall do nnto the child." 
 And He who hoars the raven's cry, would have heard and an- 
 swered her humble prayer had it been faithfully raised to His 
 throne. 
 
 But, alas ! The world was uppermost ; if thoughts of God 
 and heaven ever forced themselves into her mind, they were 
 treated as unvvcloome gnesti*, an^l driven hence without delay. 
 
 So the mother who had turned away from Christ and said in 
 her heart, " I will not have him reign over me," must at last be 
 led back by the friiits, a kicked and profligate son, and to the 
 last day of her life she couLl not forget that she was reaping as 
 she had sown. 
 
 One night two or three months after Abel Downs had opened 
 a groggery for his son, Sylvester Young left home in a state of 
 great excitement. He was angry at Tressie, mad enough to kill 
 her ; rum and disappointment had soured his temper, until 
 nobody but Bertha would bear with him. But now she had gone 
 to Aunt Kate's for a week of rest. Tressie would keep house 
 and see to the children and bear with Sylvester for dear Bertha's 
 sake if she would only rest. 
 
 But she little knew what it was to bear with her brother's 
 careless way. " You make more trouble than all the children. 
 Bertha may put up wnth it if she will, but I will not. And then 
 Tou brought such a set of creatures here last nio'ht, drunken 
 brutes ; if they are the company you keep, you can keep them 
 away from here. I'll tell father, when he comes home, you are 
 disgracing the house." 
 
 Sylvester replied with angry words, blows and curses. 
 
 Just then his father came in, angry and indignant. He told 
 Sylvester to go away and stay until he could behave better ; 
 calling him an idle vagabond at the same time. 
 
 So he w^ent, swearing he would never come home again. Of 
 course he went to Downs s ; he would bid all his friends good-by 
 before he went away. 
 
 Once in Downs's snug warm shop— for Mr. Downs took pride 
 in making his premises comfortable — Sylvester Young forgot his 
 rage and was soon in for a good time. 
 
 Twelve o'clock that night found him staggering towards home. 
 Just as he' was passing Mr. Wildcr's, he remembered he was not 
 to go home. He would go to that barn ; he could make a bed in 
 the hay and sleep. 
 
 -i. 
 
25 
 
 Indeed it was verv hard work ; he could not walk straight to- 
 save his life; he did not know whose barn it was, but he man- 
 aged to get in. He had slept soundly for two hours or more 
 when he was awakened by something trampling over him. He 
 sprang to his feet without knowing where he was. Two or three 
 head of cattle rushed out of the barn. He had left the door open. 
 
 Upon looking around, he found he was in Mr. Wilder's barn. 
 If he had been in any other barn he would have done just the 
 same. It was not the spirit of revenge, but the spirit of mischief 
 put into his head by the rum he had drank that night that 
 prompted him to light that match and place it in the hay. He 
 only waited till he was sure it would burn, and then, too 
 frightened to look back, he sped along the road. He walked 
 rapidly for some time, when a straw on his coat attracted his 
 attention. 
 
 " There may be more. I wouldn't care to be caught with 
 straws about me just now," he thought. 
 
 Taking off his coat, he found a good many straws, — quite a 
 handful. What should he do with them ? If he threw them 
 down he might be traced by them. So he carried them along, 
 carefully looking for a hiding-place for them. Just before him 
 was a tree by the roadside, and he was sure he saw a man 
 sitting on a rock under the tree, resting his head against 
 the trunk. Ves never was a coward, He possessed all those 
 qualities so prized and admired by highwaymen, and blacklegs 
 in general. 
 
 So he cautiously crept within a few feet of the figure, and then 
 he arose to his feet and quietly placed the straws in the pocket 
 of the sleeping boy, saying to himseii, " I'm glad I took this 
 road." 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 pride 
 
 AN APPEAL TO A HIGHER POWER. 
 
 A sense of gladness comes over us as we watch the sun kiss 
 the gladsome playful waves good-night, and sink behind them, 
 leaving them gloriously beautiful '\ ith the colors of the bow of 
 promise. 
 
 A cloud overspreads the sky. We have had a beautiful 
 dream ; now comes the reality, the life not meted out by an all- 
 wise and loving God. 
 
 Nay, he had placed the barriers of a praying father and 
 
26 
 
 mother, with all their loving entreaties that he would shun the 
 pi 9cipice, — the whirlpool of dissipation. 
 
 But man hath said in his heart, let us make unto ourselves 
 gods, and then an idol of clay had taken the place of loving 
 parents, — a demon had become king, excluding God from the 
 heart of Mark Davidson. 
 
 Yes, the demon rum had gained the victory and implanted 
 vice where the seeds of virtue had once been sown. 
 
 " He's over head and ears in love wi*"/h Eliza. Get him here 
 •when Lieut. Brownly comes again, and let him hear about city 
 airs and qualities' wine, and the ladies and gents he's been used 
 to drink with. If we can only manage to get the first glass 
 down him I'll risk him after that. Bye and bye Eliza will send 
 him home not worth taking. It's the only way to take the airs 
 out of 'urn, wife," and Mr. Wilder laughed as if his hopes were 
 already realized. 
 
 And now, reader, if you will accompany me over the bleak, 
 
 cold, barren bed of rock where all the poetry and music of the 
 
 waves as they roll upon the beach below, are hidden and 
 
 •drowned by the steep upright ledge of solid rock, which says 
 
 more plainly than words, " Here let thy proud waves be stayed." 
 
 But why choose a path so drear ? Not a single flower grows 
 ■ on these rocks. And then those tenements; can it be possible 
 that human beings dwell there ? Come in and see. Oh, horror ! 
 There lays Mark Davidson drunk. Yes, Wilder has done his 
 work well. Eliza has sent him home not worth taking. But 
 she too has fallen. And when without pity her father had 
 turned her from home, what was she ? an outcast. Though her 
 heart may have been filled with good resolves there were none 
 to help or pity. 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Wilder, you have at last gained an equality with the 
 Davidson's — for that pale, half-starved looking woman is no 
 other than Eliza Wilder. And we can plainly see that those 
 fatherless children will soon be motherless, and Mark lays there 
 drunk. He has often told Eliza it is she who made him what he 
 is, and she knows it is true. 
 
 Of course Mrs. Wilder cares nothing about them, if they were 
 married it would not be so bad ; she thinks they might take one 
 of the children. " But it would not do now, oh no ! " St they 
 will have to share the pauper's fate according to the disgraceful 
 laws of the land. 
 
 If Uncle John Bretman had lived, in his unselfish heart no 
 doubt Eliza's helpless children would have found a place. 
 
 He had seen Jim Magee carried to jail, and followed hira. 
 
27 
 
 There he had listened to the story of his wrongs. But the 
 death-bed scene he had witnessed had made a greater impression 
 upon his mind than any thing else. Even though it were the 
 incoherent ravings of a poor daughter of Erin, he could not 
 forget that prayer, "Curse them with a groat and mighty 
 famine such as never was before throughout the length and 
 breadth of the land, cut off everything from which intoxicating 
 drinks can be made. Starve them until they shall see the 
 wickedness of preverting Thy bounty into that which takes the 
 bread from the mouths of Thy children, and give it unto dogs 
 until they shall see the iniquity of changing Thy good gifts into 
 a curse." 
 
 " Curse them ! curse them ! Oh, Lord, starve them," had been 
 the burden of her prayer ; " they can stand it as well as I can." 
 And as Mr. Brctman stood there for hours waitmg for one bright 
 moment when he might lead the poor weary soul home to the 
 Saviour of sinners, he had formed this prayer. It had come 
 like an echo of her prayers, and found a place in her heart, and 
 Uncle John found himself many times repeating that prayer, 
 and adding, " I can bear it as well as they can, and it is Thy way 
 of putting an end to this abomination of desolation : not my will 
 but Thine be done." 
 
 The poor woman had walked all those weary miles to see her 
 boy, and found him in a jail. Not alile to pay his debts, how 
 could he help his mother ? It was in vain for her to talk to Mr. 
 Wilder, Her boy had got into jail ; all he had got to do was to 
 swear out; "you had better tell him so, marm' ; its all the advice 
 I have to give." And this, without a kind word, was all she 
 received. Mrs. Wilder said, " she would not have the old 
 woman about her house ; they have had trouble enough with 
 them already, — such a thankless race. After all she'd done for 
 Jim Magee, she was not going to take the old woman's sauce." 
 
 So Jim's mother plodded her way back to her lonely dwelling, 
 and one day Uncle John found her with naught to eat in the 
 house, and a wild delirious fever had set in. She who had left 
 her native land years ago to avoid starvation by famine, had at 
 last starved to death in a land of plenty. 
 
 So they let Jim out of jail to attend his mother's funeral. 
 After the burial Jim thought of Mr. Bretman. " I'll go straight 
 to him, and he will tell me what to do. Shure if I've got a friend 
 '.dt me dead mother, it''s him. I'll tell him it was me own fault 
 me mother starved, and nobody else, shure. And if I'd only 
 listened to her we might both be livin' in pace and plinty," 
 
 One can scarcely realize the sad lonely feelings which came 
 
\ 
 
 V 
 
 28 
 
 over the poor boy. Tlie tlionght that he was: the cause of lu's 
 mother's death luid humbled liis proud lieart, and sad, repentant 
 fcelinf,'s had taken the place of anger. So lonely and sad did he 
 feel when bed and food were offered by a kind friend, he refused 
 and very soon net out for Uncle John Bretman's. 
 
 He had got over eight of the weary miles that brought liim 
 nearer the only friend he could call his, when he sat down to 
 rest. Sad memories chased each other through his mind until 
 he fell asleep. 
 
 He was awakenei] by a hearty shake and a loud " Hallo ! what 
 the blazes brought you here ? " 
 
 " I was coming from my mother's funeral, if ye plase, sir," said 
 Jim, in a sad tone. 
 
 " Coming from your mother's funeral ; ah, Jim, you might as 
 well own up to it. You've been up to Wilder's and burned his 
 barn ; the fire ain't out yet. He told us to search tlie fellow out. 
 Ho ! Gid, I've got him. I told ye when I saw them tracks which 
 way he came." " You see," said the other man, when he came 
 up where the first was holding Jim, " You see when you made 
 that fire to run r.wav by you forgot the same light might show 
 somebody ^"lur tracks." 
 
 So Jim >vas tried, and founJ guilty, and the enief proof 
 against 1 n was, that his pockets were filled with hay when 
 they fou'id him on the same night the barn was burned. So 
 poor Jim was sent to the place appointed for such, while the 
 real culprit ran at large. 
 
 Mrs. Wilder wheeled the great cozy chair opposite the stove. 
 In that comfortable room there were no traces of want. 
 " Money answereth all things," has been truly said. But in 
 that house there was no thought of the giver. 
 
 " I've got along first-rate ; there's few men who began as I did 
 that's made money as fast," said Mr. Wilder, and Mrs. Wilder 
 said, " George is keen and smart, but I've helped him plan." 
 
 This morning Mr. Wilder is sick. He has been drinking very 
 much of late, and now when he is helped to his chair, his eyes 
 close, and he sinks helplessly into it ; but soon he opens them 
 again, and gazing wildly at the wall, he says, " I ses horrid faces 
 there, with eyes of fire and tongues of flame." Again he closes 
 his eyes and groans, only to open them in terror. " T ley come ! 
 they come!" he shrieked, "fiery serpents coil around my chair. 
 Why don't you drive them off ? Help ! help ! " With bitter 
 oaths and curses, such as I cannot, dare not repeat, he passed 
 away. He died the drunkard's death. 
 
29 
 
 " Lord, come by Thy might and Thy power, cast down this 
 great p;ountain — Intemperance." 
 
 " Come by famine, or by pestilence. Make it naught before 
 Thy might ; Thou alone hast the power." Thus prayed Uncle 
 John Bretman. 
 
 " Not by miglit, or by power, but by My spirit, saith the Lord 
 of Hosts," was whispered in the immortal ears of the dying saint, 
 and he exclaimed, " The Lord be praised, for the Day Star from 
 on high has visited my soul. Farewell earth, welcome heaven." 
 And thus rejoicing he passed away. He died the death of the 
 ri'diteous. 
 
 How I enjoyed that drive with Fred by my side on that 
 beautiful moon-lit eve. And I who had known so much of 
 sorrow, wondered if souls in bliss could be happier. But alas! 
 how soon was my cup of happiness daslied aside by the cup of 
 — Hell ; I can find no other word. 
 
 But why should I linger here ? Why should I fear to tell the 
 truth ? Why did I not beg Fred to stay at home that night 
 instead of goipg to the old Grey mansion, where a company of 
 fclie wealthy and the beautiful had gathered. 
 
 Why did I go there that night to see him tempted beyond his 
 strength, — to see him fall ? And Blanche Challoner the f ir 
 temptress ! 
 
 Instinctively I saw the light of love in his eyes, and jealously 
 I Watched her power over him that evening. 
 
 How gladly proud was I to hear him politely but firmly refuse 
 the proffered wine. 
 
 "Just one glass for my sake, Mr. Melbourn." It was a sweet 
 voice that spoke those words, and they were only designed for 
 Fred, but my jealous ears caught hem, and my watchful eyes 
 saw the glass raised to the lips of the beautiful girl. And as 
 one but half awake, I saw him take the glass and drink. 
 
 The scene slowly faded from my view, and in its stead I saw 
 my brother's deathly face as it looked that night so long ago. 
 And afar off, as through an open door, [ saw his murderer 
 hanging. 
 
 And though I spoke no words, from m.y inmost soul I cried, 
 " My son, behold what wine hath done ;" and then all the scenes 
 of my life arose before me, and Agnes Grey was not forgotten. 
 I seemed to see her stand by the table, beautiful still, but a 
 maniac, and with warning finger she pointed to the wine cup, 
 and cried, " I never tasted wine, I never saw wine upon my 
 father's table ; but he is gone, and others tread these halls." 
 
80 
 
 And then I seemed to see her brother as he traced upon the 
 floor of his cell those awful words, "No drunkard shall inherit 
 the kingdom of Heaven," and then he died. 
 
 I saw her gray-haired father bowed with grief and heard him 
 say, " Oh God, Thy will be done." 
 
 And again I cried, " Son, behold the victims I behold the 
 martyrs I" But no one heard my voice. 
 
 And now what more can I write ? To trace his future course 
 would be to tell an old story. Shall 1 again appeal to my 
 country's rulers ? 
 
 No, I will address a higher power. I will ask my Father in 
 Heaven to take His throne in the hearts of my countrymen, to 
 reign in their hearts, to speak to their hearts by the power of 
 His " still small voice," until with one voice they shall cry, " Lord, 
 what wilt thou have us to do ?" 
 
 Oh hasten the day when through them thou wilt free our 
 land from the curse of Intemperance. 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 
 
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