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DICKSON, District Passenger Agent, Union Station Toronto, Ont. R. QUINN, European Traffic Agent, 25 Water St Liverpool, Eng. D. 0. ?EASE, District Passenger Agent, Bonaventure S Ratios Montreal, P. Q. J. QUINLAN, Traveling Passenger Agent, Bonaventure Sti.tio". Montreal, P. Q. Mrs. L. BARBER, Ticket Agent, ^ International Block Niagara Falls, N. Y. D. ISAACS, Ticket Agent iProspec, House i Niagara Falls, N. Y. G. M. COLBURN, Ticket Agent (Clifton House) Niagara Falls, Ont. E. DELAHOOKE, City Ticket Agent, 3 Masonic Temple. . . .' London, Ont. G. E. MORGAN, City Ticket Agent, II James St. North Hamilton, Ont. P. J. SLATTER, City and District Passenger Agent, 20 York St., and comer King and Yonge Streets Toronto, Oni. T. HAIfLEY, City Ticket Agent Kingston, Ont. W. D. O'BRIEN, City Ticket Agent, 143 St. James Street Montreal, P. Q. A. H. TAYLOR, City Passenger and Freight Agent, RusseU House Block Ottawa, Ont. T. D. SHIPMAN, City Ticket Agt, oppos. S^ Louis Hotel and 17 Sous-le-Fort St., Quebec, P. Q. L. GLEN, City Ticket Agent, 175 St. Vincent Street Glasgow, Scot. H. C. FLOCKTON, City Ticket Agent, 36 and 37 Leadenhall Street London, Eng. T. F. WAINWRIGHT, City Ticket Agent, 2 PaU MaU Manchester, Eng. JJi b-^^ c 'f ' ^iL y. ^■-•i^' If mi- '•■■«^U- .i^f . //"l ".■■:'',:P9i., ■yy./j ••r it %. ■ \ - ■ ■.*.'■, " , W'''^ ,,' .' r if ^^ '>«»»l' '\#»*S ■**KI|»' *«'' ■^,-*«|.«W. -«llfe*'l!«ll»**^'-*' -' <% ■'."^ ■R- - •. '^y4'^' \\ ^■J*.-, ■««. t THOMAS JV. DOUTiNEV: HIS LIFE-STEUGGLK AND TKK MPHS AI.HO n mvib ipcn^ipicture of Bew iporft, TouEirfEH wmr A HISTOEY OF THE WOPv mt- i, . „ ^Jr,J^ "^ ^'^ ACCOMrLISHED AS TEMPERANCE KEFORMER. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. Profiwclg f Iiu8tratc&. BATTLE CREEK, MICH • WM. O. GAGS & SON8,PBINTBB8 ANPHINDBBS. 1893. Entered According to Act of Congress in the year 1898, By THOMAS N. DOUTNEY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. Seventh Edition, March, 1898. TO THE BEST PART OP MY LIFE, Mu miu, THIJ STORY OF MY "LIFE" IS TENDERLY DEDICATED BV THE MAi: 8HK HAS BLEH8ED FOR LIFB. HER HUSBAND. i j^i! blKAMER OK K. & O. NAVIGATION CO., RUNNING THE LACMINE RAl'IDS. Near Montreal, O w H o I INTRODUCTION. H o Whoever wishes to know the life that is lived in New York and the other large cities of America, by thousands upon thousands of human beings, let him read this book. Whoever wishes to peruse the simple, truthful narrative of the sms, suflferings, struggles, yet, by the grace of God, the ultimate reformation and triumph, of an average human being, — such as Thomas N. Doutney, — let him read this book. Whoever wishes to learn the history of temperance work in this country, let him read this book. And whoever sincerely desires to know the true nature of the demon Alcohol, and the real character of that hell. Intemperance, — from which only the blessing of God on his own exertions can rescue the rum-drinker and the rum-seller, — let him read this book. s< :l i CONTENTS. I I r CHAPTER I. My Birthplace and my Parentage. — My Fatlier's Career. — My Mother and my Family. — "Just as I am" 1 CHAPTER il. Early Impressions. — Music and Flowers. — The Joys of Summer and of a Canadian Winter. — Myself, my Schooldays, and "Home, Gweet Home." — The Beginning of Sorrows. — The Downward Path. — My First "Drink." — One Point in which "The Lower Animals" set an Example to Man. — Two True Stories with a Moral ... 7 CHAPTER m. A Boy Drunkard. — Two Weeks in a Bar-room as Ainateur Bar-tender. — A Love-story with a Doubly Disastrous Termination. — The Depths of Youthful Degradation 17 CHAPTER IV. A Bad Boy's Dream. — A Drunkard's Nightmare, — " Bar-room Friend- ships," their Worth and Worthlessness. — A Youthful Sinner and his Sorrows. — How a Boy Drunkai'd was saved 24 CHAPTER V. The Turning of the Tide. — The Trip to " The Hub." — " Dime Novel "- ism. — The Two Bold Boston Buccaneers, and what became of them. — The Boy is the Father of the Man U CHAPTER VI. My Collegiate Career. — Does a " College Education " educate ? — A Lady Graduate. — A Typical Irishman. — A Question of Ice-cream and Influence. —The Hash-hater, and why he hated it . . . . 60 CHAPTER VII. I commence my Mercantile Career. — Modern Trade as it really is. — Its "Seamy" and its "Starry" Sides. — Model Firms and Millionnaires. — Centennial Excursions. — A New View of A. T. Stewart. — Jordan, Marsh, & Co 68 ix CONTENTS. CHAPTER VIII. PAO> How I fell from Grace, and lost my Place. — Railroad Life. — On to New York 82 CHAPTER IX. New York in General. — Who come to New York, and what becomes of them. — William E. Dodge, and James Fisk, juu. — Which of the Two Men will you imitate ? 88 CHAPTER X. Life in New York, Sensational and Realistic. — The Population of the Great Metropolis, and its Characteristic Features. — German, Irish, and American New York. — Fifth Avenue, Broadway, and the Bowery, 03 CHAPTER XI. A Pen-panorama of New York. — The Poor of the Great Metropolis. — ' Castle Garden and the Emigrants. — "Les Mis^rables." — "Old Mother Hurley's." — The Black Hen's. —The Black Hole of Cherry Street. — The Mysteries of Donovan's Lane. — Tenement-house Life and "Rotten Row. "—The Summer Poor 101 CHAPTER XII. The Pen-panorama of New York {continued). — Crime and Criminals.— The Male and Female Thieves of the Metropolis. — Meeting Mur- derers on Broadway. — The Social Evil. — Gambling, Square and Skin. —The Gambler's Christmas Eve 120 CHAPTER XIII. The Pen-panorama of New York {continued). — The Metropolitan Police as they are. — The Detectives. — Thief -takers in Petticoats. — How Capt. John S. Young caught a Thief by Instinct. — The Tombs Prison, and " Murderer's Row " ..;...... 149 CHAPTER XIV. A Sunday in New York. — Religions and Irreligious Gotham. — The Big Funerals of New York. — Sunday Evenings in the Great Metropolis. — The History of One Memorable Sabbath Day 169 CHAPTER XV. The Wealth of the Great Metropolis. — Trade, Speculation, Wall Street, and the Professions. — The Adventures of Two Brothers who tried to succeed in New York by being Honest. — "Fashionable Society," and what it amounts to. — The Bright Side of New York. — New York, after all, the Best as well as Greatest City . . . ... 178 CONTENTS. Xl CHAPTER XVT. PAOK Seeking and Plu^.Ing Employment. — New York at Night. — " The Sleep- less City. "—The Demon Rum 203 CHAPTER XVII. Drifting and Shifting. — A Memorable Sunday. —My Adventures in Cin- cinnati. — Life on the River-steamboats. — Its Tragedy and Comedy illustrated. — Steamboat Races, Fires, and Explosions. -River-gani- blerj. — Mock Courts and a Bk'ssed Practical Joke. — My Curse con- quers me again 200 CHAPTER XVIII. Life in St. Louis. — One of the Minor Disadvantages of Drinking. — The Smell of Liquor. — Serio-comic Illustrations and Anecdotes. — "A Hotel Runner." — How an Irishman outbawled me, and how I out- generalled him. — "A Railroad-man" once more. — My F.ather'8 Grave 22.'i CHAPTER XIX. My Newspaper-life in New York. — Authors, Critics, Writers, and Jour- nalists as Drinking-men. — IIow Horace Greeley began a Dinner- speech. — Smart Men who put an Enemy into their Mouths to steal away their Brains. — Alcoholic Stimulants a Curse to Talent. — Fast Balls, and their Surroundings. — Business and Drink. — A Blessing that proved a Bane 2.S:^> CHAPTER XX. A Silly and Sinful Vow realized. — I become a Rum-seller. — " The Mer- chants' Union Cigar-store and Sample-room." — I dispense Poison to Men and Boys. — Selling Liquor to Minors. — " Pool for Drinks " 252 CHAPTER XXI. Selling Liquor to Women. — Feminine Intemperance. — The Growing Fondness for Strong Drink among Females. — The Temptations of Women to Intemperance. — Public and Private Balls and Parties.— The Supper after the Theatre, the Fashionable Restaurant, the Excur- sion, etc. — The Abuses of Drug-stores exposed. — The Threefold Horror of Intemperance in Women « • 861 CHAPTER XXII. A Rum-seller's Responsibility. — What I did, and what I have ever since been sorry for having done. — " A Drunkard's Bible " . . . .276 xii CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXIII. PASB Further Details of my Iniquities as a Rum-seller. — " Free Lunches " de- nounced and exposed. — Tlie "Cordial" Humbug. — The Decoy- bottle. —The Story of a Del)auch. — " The New- York House," — Rum and Ruin. — The Fate of Rum-sellers 290 CHAPTER XXIV. A Broken Promise ami a Broken-hearted Brother. — Liquor brings its Revenge. — The Horrors of Mania it Potu, or Delirium Tremens. — Some Curious and Startling Facts. — How I felt and what I suffered, — My Adventures and Follies. — I became "a Tramp." — Station- house Lodgers and Revolvers 301 n CHAPTER XXV. "On the Island." — The Penitentiary, — The Almshouse and the House of Refuge, — "Rum does it." — Lights and Shades of the Lunatic Asylum, — "Island" Notorieties, — A Vain Attempt to cure the Drinking-habit, — New York and Rum once more .... 81d CHAPTER XXVI, Drunkards and Drinking in New York. —The City of Saloons. — The Glory and the Shame of the Metropolis, — Palatial hum-parlors, Cosey Bar-rooms, and Corner Groceries 332 CHAPTER XXVn. The Haunts of the Rum-demon. — The Concert-saloons of New York. — The Dance-houses. — How a New- York Journalist saved a Gennan Girl. — The Efforts which have been made by Temperance and Reli- gion to coml)at Intemperance and Vice. — The Wickedest Man in New York, and Kit Burns. — " Awful " Gardner and Jerry McAuley . . 338 CHAPTER XXVIII. The Rum-dens of New York To-day. — Harry Hill and "Harry Hill's.— The Truth about the Man and his Place. — The "Mabille" and McGlory's Den. — " The Haymarket " and " The Dives," — The Real Trouble with the Temperance Movement S&8 CHAPTER XXIX, Still Another Opportunity Won and Lost. —The Young Men's Christian Association. — Its History and Good Work. — I am seized with an Idea. —And I prepare to carry it out 385 CONTENTS. • •• xm CHAPTER XXX. The Stage in Its Relation to tlie Bottle. — The "Stars " and Drunkards of the Past. — Estimable Men and Women who have been mastered by Bad Habits. — And Estimable Men and Women who Imve resisted these Bad Habits. — The Three Booths. —New Light on the Assassi- nation of Abraham Lincoln. — The Drama and the Dram . PAOB 377 CHAPTER XXXL My First Lecture, — " Great Expectations." —A Bitter Disappointment. — What I saw and what I did not see on Tremont Street. — Two In- telligent and Well-dressed Htrangera, and what they wanted with me. — A Lecture under Difficulties. — A Temperance Lecturer Falien . 38;i CHAPTER XXXn. Tlie Darlcest Hour is just before the Dawn." — My Lowest Point, — Mania ft Potii in its most Fearful Form. — My Experience as a Cavalry Recruit. —Army Life. — My First Prayer. —My Reformation . 392 CHAPTER XXXin. A Converted Man's Trials, — Fear as an Encouraging Sign. — Yes and No, or a Scene at Midnight. —Tlie Lightning-rod Man. — The Life- insurance Agent. — The "Drummer" and his " Samples," — Book- canvassing, — A True Friend and Second Father 403 CHAPTER XXXIV, I Join the Temperance Bands. — Remarks as to the Great Usefulness of "Temperance Societies." — I lecture under Favorable Auspices. — My Triumph and my Troubles. — My Book and my Printers. — I lec- ture in Washington. — Temperance and Intemperance among our Public Men. — Sumner and Wilson compared with Saulsbury and McDougail 417 CHAPTER XXXV. My Second Lecture In the Tremont Temple. —I vindicate my Cause, and redeem my Failure. — I lecture at Steinway Hall, New York. —And I peddle my own Tickets for my Lecture. — Extracts from my First Book and my Earlier Lectures. — Words of Advice, Warning, and Consolation 4.32 CHAPTER XXXVL My Leciure-tour through the Pine-tree State. —The First Temperance Camp-meeting. — "A Happy Thought " happily carried out. — Prohi- hition in Theory and Practice. — How I crossed the Kennebec through the Ice. — A Seventy-mile Sleigh-ride to Augusta. — Two . Exciting Episodes . . . . . .. . . . . . 446 xiv CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXVII. pAsa The Women's Cnisade. — Its Effects in Bangor, Me., and Elsewhere. — The Origin iinil Progress of the Good Work. — Scenes and Incidents. — The Ciirecr of the Crusaders in Clncinnuli, Chicago, and New York 4(W CHAPTER XXXVIII. Temperance Work. — Its History and Progress. — The Methods and' Achievements of my Predecessors and Colleagues in the Good Cause. — The Ut'v. Drs. Lyman Beecher and Theodore L. Cuyler. — The Washinglonians. — John B. Gough. — Father Mathew and Francis Murphy, etc 479 CHAPTER XXXIX. A Tribute of Gratitude. — In Memoriam of those who have befriended me. — A Long List of Good Men and Women 487 CHAPTER XL. My Best Friend. — How I wooed and won my Wife. — I obey an Irre- sistible Impnlse, and meet my Fate. — A Short, Sweet Love-story. — I link my Life with a Good Woman CHAPTER XLI. My Professional Temperance Work.*— Its General Aspects. — Its Details and Narrative. — My Success at Watertown, N.Y. — My Struggles and Triumphs at St. Paul, Minn. — My Campaign along the Hudsoii, Newburg, Yonkers, Nyack, etc. — " The Temperance-tent " at Rochester. — The Good Cause in New Jersey. — Temperance Matinies at Albany. — Blue Ribbons and Practical Philanthropy. — Enthusiasm at Saratoga. — South and West. — Richmond, Va., and Richmond, Ind CHAPTER XLII. My Wanderings, and Warfare with the Demon Alcohol. — North, South, East, and West. — In Villages and In Cities. — My Visit to Brooklyn. — My Adventures in Providence. — "Was I not Right ?"— Scenes, Incidents, and Episodes. — Some J.isunderstandlngs. — A Summary of my Work. —The Brute of a Rum-seller. — The Cripple and her Mother. —A Baby as the best Temperance Lecturer of them all CHAPTER XLIII. 500 620 The Temperance Campaign in New York. — How the Metropolis Forgives. — Some Striking Illustrations. — Why not Woman as well as Man ? — The Masonic Temple, the Church, and the Indian Wigwam. — Dan Rice, Happy Jack Smith, and Pop Whittaker. —The Search for John ▲. Tobin. — The New-York Press and People . . . . ..68S tits. Few 9JMM 460 nd se. he cis • 479 id • 487 t. I • 493 9 I 600 520 0S2 ^ -^ ^ -2 . r. ■r. = =5 n y y. o l-H 9 w RAPIDS OF THE MAGOG, AT SHERBROOKE, QUE. Oil the Lino of the (ir;uul Trunk UalKvay. LIFE-STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS — OF- THOMAS N. DOUTNEY. CHAPTER I. MY BIBTHPLACB AND MY PARENTAGE. — MY FATHER'S CAREER. MOTHER AND MY FAMILY. — " JUST AS I AM." ■MT There is a certain good or ill fortune, as the case may be, that is derived by each one of us, not only from the circum- stances connected with our birth, but from our birthplace. To my mind, it is a positive misfortune to be born amid local sur- roundings that have no beauty ; while it is a direct happiness in itself to be ushered into existence, and to grow up, amid beautiful scenery, amid delightful valleys, or vast green woods, cr beneath the grand mountains, or beside the yet grander sea. I therefore really feel grateful that I was born in one of the finest portions of Canada, on the right-hand bank of that mighty river, the St. Lawrence, which is year by year growing in the esteem of tourists* and which, though not so vast as the Mis- sissippi, nor so romantically beautiful as the Hudson, still pos- sesses characteristic attractions of its own which will always render it an object of deserved admiration and interest. I was born in the village o^ Laprairie, in Canada East, nearly opposite Montreal, to which city my parents removed shortly after my birth. Now, there are few cities which, in point of picturesque beauty, surpass Montreal. With its houses built of the gray limestone from the adjacent qutoies, with its tfi > |( ! 2 MONTREAL AND ITS CATHEDRAL. numerous tall spires, its many glittering roofs and domes, with its scores of beautiful villas studding its lofty background, the city presents as charming a panorama as is to be seen on the entire continent. It was in this beautiful city that my early youth was passed, and my first, and therefore most indelible, impressions of life were formed. My father's home was in the immediate vicinity of the great Roman-Catholic cathedral, confessedly the largest and finest cathedral in America, surmounted by a tower, the view from which almost defies description. It may seem a little thing, this Irving near so grand and beautiful a building as this cathedral ; but in reality, in its imperceptible but all- pervading effect upon the heart and mind of the constant bo- holder, it was a very important thing indeed. It became, as it were, part and parcel, and a very important portion, of my daily life. It was the first object I saw from my room-window in the morning, the last object I saw from my window at night ere I went to bed. It was with me in its might and beauty all the time. It stole into my soul unawares. Its quiet might and majesty were deeply impressed upon me, — far more deeply than I at the time myself imagined. In fact, boylike, I thought nothing about it, I suppose ; but, notwithstanding my careless- ness of the effect, the effect was there, and has remained there ever since. In all ny wanderings and adventures, in my darkest hours as in my brightest, the grand yet beautiful pro- portions and outlines of that cathedral have been carried with me in my mind's eye, proving once more the positive truth of those oft-quoted words, " A thing of beauty is a joy forever." My father's name was Thomas L. Doutney, and he was both a gentleman and a scholar. He came of a good old family; and he had been educated at La Salle University, in the famed old city of Quebec, the most celebrated and the most pictur- esque of American cities. " It was the first object I saw from my window in tlic morning" [p. 2]. THE OLD TOWN OF QUEBEC. 8 Just as my heart has ever fondly turned to Montreal; so my father's heart always tenderly turned, in memory, to Que- bec. My father was never wearied of telling me about the dear, quaint old city of his college days. He would graph- ically describe the fine Upper Town, the semi-aristocratic, semi- religious city which stretched within the walls, devoted part to dwellings, and part to religious edifices, — a city which, even in this nineteenth century, when the days of chivalry are re- called only in the novels of James or Scott, still resembles a mediaeval town, such as the Crusaders might have lived in. Having been educated in Quebec, mj' father settled in Mon- treal, and, on attaining the age of twenty-one, became the editor and proprietor of a journal — a daily journal — entitled "L'Aurore des Canadas." My father had always evinced an inclination towards political literature and press-writing, and had taken the trouble (in which respect he differed for the better from most press-writers) to familiarize himself thoroughly with all the practical departments connected with a newspaper. He had literally served " an apprenticeship " to " the newspaper business," and understood all the duties concerned therein, from printer's devil to managing editor and proprietor. He began at the very bottom of the ladder, and by his tact, ability, industry, and character worked his way to the top ; and, had the administration to whose cause he devoted his talents and his paper remained in power, he would have become himself a power in the province. But the usual ministerial crisis came (it comes in Canada just as inevitably as it comes in the mother country) ; and, the ministry resigning, my father's paper's fate was sealed. Like the sensible and dignified dog in the story, who, when he saw preparations made to kick him out of the window, walked down stairs ; my father, seeing that all the patronage would be withdrawn from his paper, did not wait to postpone the evil day, but suspended publication at / r 1 i w ll I |i ! ♦ 4 ifT FATHER. once. It was his wisest course ; for, being now relieved from the necessity of supporting what could only be a burden and a failure, he was now free to take advantage of any outside opportunities which might arise. And they soon arose. Aware of my father's practical newspaper training, as well as news- paper abilities, various publishers made him offers of employ- ment in responsible though not very lucrative capacities ; and at different times he became connected with three of the prominent journals of Canada, — "La Pays," "La Minerve," and "The Montreal Gazette." I may here remark, that, while on the staff of " The Montreal Gazette," my father visited the United States, and received marked attention in several of the leading cities of the Union. Carrying with him letters of indorsement from his Honor Charles Rodier, Esq., mayor of Montreal in 1868, he was- received with the utmost courtesy by Hon. Daniel F. Tieman, mayor of New York, and other political magnates of the metropolis. Making a somewhat extended stay in New York,, he connected himself with the business department of "The Army and Navy Journal " of New York, and wrote for several metropolitan journals. He afterwards located himself in Boston, becoming connected with one of the leading papers there, — "The Boston Post." But in the prime of life, at forty-five years of age, and in the midst of his useful career, he died suddenly, having experienced more than the usual vicissitudes- of a newspaper career, and never having had an opportunity to do full justice to his abilities. In this latter respect he was like thousands of other men ; but as a loving father, ever struggling for the best interests and advancement of his children, and truly devoted to his family, he has had few equals and no superiors, so far as my knowl- edge and observation of life extends. His pride and delight were in us his children. Tears fill my eyes now when I think oi t^--' ■■-'1 ^ m^*mr ^' -,-■■ - ■ * ui- ■! '■■■.-v^n..y J ^^^■'^s'" r 1 1 y^l ^l- ^ah-^ .fini..-.JI ' 'iSi^sS^ h^mu£,:^^ L A tttMiiMt!iiite%^'<- '^ _i«i, ^:iPii«»ai > Ji Mi •i'Jj** 0^P'm r^f^i^ p^H it* ,. ^ jr-*" '^ - .0 W -; ,« ;^V,^^^^Jh|^^HHH^^^ : ■ «:H.„^rf FiiSI ^ > .• -' '..9 7^ -t J; 1' r'V. 1 ^ f ' ■ '■'■■'M ) GRAND ALLEE AND ST. LOUIS GATE, QUEBEC, P. O. Oil lliu I.iiic ut'lhc CiiiUiil Trunk Kailuay. FABRIQUE STREET, LOOKING TOWARD BEAUPORT, QUEBEC, P. O. Un the Line of the CraiiJ Tr"nk Kailway. / I! I ^ i ^-»j^ ^•»»■'»■*■"i»;;••^^ !«««**-* • .^irgi fcae-^^ ■:W^,iP^'^T*•«r«'i^M^!^^'■ VIEW FROM THE EOKTIMCATION, QUEBEC, V. Q. thi the l.iiKj uf the (Jraiid i'riink Railway. 1 V^H ■ ,' .i'^, ■",: .,W^;'^*'f**««'*? ■,'*;r;.^^'^i*- "">-'■** ■''■-^-'•' ■. , ^^^t-;>«. .... _ »; i»iltlff^ 8 MT LOVE OF MUSIC. t I I generally, alike on the part of parents and teachers, but on a mistaken notion that the more facts a child can repeat the more information that child is likely to retain, — an idea that is wholly unfounded. An overloaded mind, like an overloaded stomach, leads, not to health, but indigeetion. Still, as a mere matter of fact, I must here record, that, judged by the ordinary standard, I was "a good scholar," a child who always "knew his les- sons." I was an impressionable child, too, rather imaginative, while at the same time of a social temperament, — a dangerous combi- nation of qualities, as I have since found it. I was passionately fond of music, and on Sundays would revel in the sublime melody afforded at the grand cathedral. While the notes of the organ pealed through the majestic temple, I would feel that ecstatic thrill which perhaps, of all hu- man sensations, approaches nearest to the bliss of heaven. And I am sure that the religious element in my nature was deep- ened, not deteriorated or lessened, by the glorious music with which it was thus associated. Music and religion should be like man and wife, never sepa- rated. It is to the practical application of this truth that the Roman Catholic and the Protestant Episcopal churches owe much of their success. Father Cummings, who was, when living, the favorite pastor of St. Stephen's Roman-Catholic Church in New- York City, — a church so crowded twice every Sunday as to force the sexton often to close the church-doors upon late comers, — once re- marked in his pleasant, shrewd way, " I trust to ray organist and my choir to bring the people in : the church and I will attend to them after they are once brought in." And it is recorded of a venerable bishop of the Episcopal Church, who was " as wise as a serpent, though harmless as a dove," that, when a pious old lady once remarked, holding up I I SUMMER AND WINTER. 9 iicr Lands in hon-or, that she had heard the organist play, upon his sacred insti-ument, a selection from what she was told was the opera, — or, as she phrased it, "the Devil's music," — mildly yet forcibly replied by asking the old lady the unanswerable question, "Well, my dear madam, why should the Devil be allowed to have all the best music ? " Why, indeed? Why, indeed, should vice in general be rendered as attractive as possible, while virtue is allowed to seem wwattractive ? Why should the concert-saloon and the beer-hall resound with sweet or lively music, while the Sunday school or the temperance platform should be either deprived of music, or echo only with lugubrious strains ? Why, indeed ? But music was not my only delight as a child : I was passion- ately fond of flowers and of the works of nature, as I think all healthy children are. I loved to wander in the fields ; I loved to stroll by the river-side ; I loved, in my unconscious yet heart- felt way, " to look up from nature unto nature's God." I enjoyed the short but sweet Canadian summer greatly but I equally delighted in the bracing though sometimes severe Canadian winter. After all, I am inclined to think that poets and novelists have descanted too enthusiastically upon the charms of sum- mer. These are exquisite, doubtless, but they are also ener vuting. To lie all day vmder a leafy tree ; to sleep, soothed in your slumbers by the rippling murmurs of a babbling brook ; to chase the brilliant butterfly ; to plunge into the bath ; to sentimentalize in the soft moonlight; to pluck the roses in June ; to enjoy the greenness of July ; or to lazily swing in a hammock in the dog-days of August, — this is sweet in mod- eration : this is refreshing if it forms but part of a holiday, a vacation, a needed rest from labor. But to walk miles in cold, bracing air on snow ; to " sled," or to " coast," or to skate ; to brace yourself up, and venture out into a temperature appro x;i- 10 UOME LIFE'' AND THE '' BliEAKING-UP." i' ! ; raatiiig zero ; to feel the keen air blowing against your cheeks,, and to be impelled to the necessity of active physical exercise^ — this is better than the summer siesta; better because it is braver. And there is a hardy happiness about a Canadian, winter, which I thoroughly appreciated myself as a boy, and which, I am glad to find, is gradually growing into favor witli- the American public ; as witness the Sclat which attended the recent ice-carnival at Montreal, — an occasion which brought, visitors from all parts of the United States. For several years, what with my school, my school-com- panions, my cathedral music on Sundays and holidays, my happy summers, my still more delightful winters, and, bo all, with my father and mother and brothers and sistei^, :uy "home, sweet home," I was indeed happy, — happier than I have ever been since, happier, probably, than I will ever be- again : for true happiness is like the plant that only blooms once in a lifetime ; and, alas I alas ! how many live and die- without ever having found it bloom at all I Then the " break " came. My father was obliged to leave- Montreal on his business. My mother was taken sick, became- a confirmed invalid, and was removed to a hospital. Pecuniary difficulties increased our other troubles, and my " home life " ended. Sorrows seldom come singly, and in my case they over- whelmed me in whole troops. Financial and family troubles increased, till our once happy and united house uold was en- tirely broken up, like thousands of households before and since ; while we poor children were thrown upon the mercy of a cold world. For a while I could not fully appreciate the change in my position and prospects. I felt, and, alas I I acted, like one La a. dream, who was sure he would soon somehow awaken to a more agreeable reality. ij It ! ! " My coinpanions, and the bar-keeper, and the men around, only laughed" [p. 11]. MT FIBST GLASS OF LIQUOR. II yy/ / :hed" I was always of a social nature, and rather what is called " popular " among my companions ; and I paid the full price of this curse of " popularity," for such mere " personal popu- larity " often is. I was not forced to feel at once our changed pecuniary posi- tion. Although I was taken from school, I still had for a while a roof to shelter me, and even a little pocket-money ; and my pocket-money and my popularity together ruined me. I wa» induced to drink, and soon formed a habit of drinking. I have recorded the fatal bane of my life in this short sentence. Well do I remember — oh! shall I ever forget? — my first drink. I met a boy, a schoolmate, who asked me to accompany him into a gilded bar-room we were passing. I accepted the invitation, and I followed my youthful companion to the bar. We could scarcely yet reach up to the counter ; but we regarded ourselves as men, and men we really were so far as having one of the worst appetites of men could constitute a man. My companion was evidently accustomed to the place. He nodded carelessly to the bar-keeper, who nodded familiarly to him, and placed a bottle of whiskey before him on the counter. My companion poured the fiery liquid from the bottle into his glass, and I followed his example. My companion poured the fiery liquid from his glass down his throat, and I followed his example. Never shall I forget my sensations as I swallowed this my first glass of liquor. It seemed as if a fire were rushing through my veins. It seemed as if my brain and my body were dilating under the draught. I imagined myself for a moment a giant : and then the re-action came, and I only knew that I was deathly sick ; that I — I, the child of a fond father's and mother's and brothers' and sisters' love and prayers — was drunk in a bar-room. Alasl I must then and there have been a sight to make the angels weep^ though my companion and the bar-keeper and the men around only laughed. I must here X ■Il!ljl' ■I I ill i; 12 INSTINCT VERSUS SEASON. remark, that of course I did not at one bound become a whiskey-drinker: I did not, "at one fell swoop," become a drunkard. No : I had, previous to the sad scene just related, been for some time in the habit of drinking beer and ale and malt liquors ; and I had contracted the habit of frequenting the public-houses and the beer-saloons. In nine cases out of ten, boys, like men, become drinkers and drunkards gradually, by a slow but sure progression, or, rather, retrogression. The famous ancient saying holds good (or bad) in these modern days : " Facilia descensus averni " (" Easy and imperceptible is the descent into evil "). It was thus in my case. I began first to sip, when a small boy, small-beer ; then it was but a step, and a natural one, to cider ; then but another natural step to ale; and then the ordinary and almost inevitable result fol- lowed, and I took my first drink of spirituous liquors under the .circumstances and with the result already described. This first drink caused me, in its results upon my youthful system, a physical agony, which one would think would have had a permanently beneficial effect upon me in leading me ever aftei to dread and avoid the cause of such suffering. But, unfortunately, the suffering was but transitory ; and the sin was soon repeated, with less suffering at the time. There seems to be this characteristic difference between man, said to be endowed with reason, and the lower animals, which are endowed only with what is called " instinct." The latter will seldom repeat any experiment which has once been proved by tliem to be pernicious upon themselves. Whereas man, the lord of creation, so self-styled, — man, made in the image of his Maker, — will repeat, and will keep on repeating, an action, or a course of conduct, which he has proved, which he knows, to be injurious. A monkey on board a ship some years ago was given some rum by the sailors, and for a while enjoyed himself hugely with I I I MAN AND THE MONKEY. n his liquor. He drank freely, swallowed glass after glass of the fiery liquid, and became hilariously drunk, to the intense delight of the crew in general, and of the captain in particular, who was a heavy drinker. For a while Master Monkey was as happy as a king, or, as the phrase goes, as " drunk as a lord." Then " a change came o'er the spirit of his dream," and Master Monkey did not feel quite so kinglike or so lordly. Then he ceased his antics altogether, huddled himself up in a corner, and looked as he felt, intensely wretched and deathly sick. Master Monkey was paying the penalty of his intoxication. In a few days he recovered from his sickness completely, and was as well as ever. So far the analogy between him and an ordinary " drinking " man was complete. So far the man and the monkey were precisely similar. But at this point all re- semblance ended. For when, a few days later, the sailors again offered Master Monkey some more rum, the monkey, instead of accepting the offer, — and the liquor, — resented the one, and fled from the other. He snapped at the sailor who offered him the rum, and then ran away, and climbed up the rigging, where he remained for hours. And never again, during that voyage, could the monkey be induced to taste one drop of that rum. Once the captain tried to force some of the liquor down his throat ; but the brute (?) (was he a brute, after all ? or, rather, which of the two creatures was the real brute, the monkey or the captain ?) fought fiercely, and finally compelled the captain to desist. A year later that vessel went down at sea, with all hands on board. A severe. gale arose, and possibly it could have been safely struggled through with (for the vessel was stanch ; and the captain, when sober, was really a skilful seaman) ; but the captain and crew alike were more or less under the influence of liquor — and the ship went down. 14 TUE ELEPUANT AND TOBACCO. Now, in this instance, was not the order of nature clearly and directly reversed ? Did not the monkey act like a man, or as a man should act ? And did not the men act in a way that would disgrace a monkey ? Many similar anecdotes illustrating this point could here be given did space permit. Experiments have been tried with intoxicating liquors upon dogs and cats ; and, in the majority of •cases, the animal would never voluntarily repeat its intoxication. True, there have been exceptional cases. I knew of a cat once that had formed an acquired taste for liquor, and whose antics, it must be confessed, while under the influence of whiskey punch, were very amusing, to the spectators at least ; though I cannot answer positively for the cat. But, in the great majority of instances, the point I have made holds good. And it certainly is a good point — in favor of mere instinct and the lower animals. The same point holds with regard to the use of tobacco. Animals which have once been made sick with tobacco, never, or " hardly ever," can be induced to give " the weed " a second trial. A striking and terrible illustration of this fact was afforded some years ago, in the career of a Western circus, recorded by the well-known actress and authoress, Olive Logan, in her book upon the stage, and show-people generally. An elephant had once been offered a piece of tobacco, which he had greedily taken up in his trunk, and eagerly swallowed. It made him sick and disgusted; and, elephants having long memories, he did not forget his experience. Some months afterwards a man visiting the show "fooled" the elephant by substituting a quid of tobacco for a cracker, and causing the monster to swallow the former in haste in mistake for the latter. The elephant at once became infuriated, broke loose, and carried confusion and dismay with him in his course THE WRECKING OF A CIRCUS. 16 •of destruction, bringing the performances to an unexpectedly iibrupt end. Having vented his wrath on the cirous-tent and its surroundings, the now thoroughly maddened brute rushed to the railroad-track, on which a freight-train was rapidly ap- proaching round a curve. Ere the collision could be averted, the elephant and the locomotive " collided," the beast was killed, and the locomotive was thrown off the track, and the engineer and fireman were seriously injured. But this was not all. In the crash caused by the elephant's escapade, the cage of the tiger belonging to the show had been upset ; and the tiger had escaped. It can readily be understood what ex- citement was created by this fact, and how the farmers at once combined, and patrolled the country, for their protection from the tiger. After attacking and killing several valuable horses, and giving chase to several men, the tiger was finally killed, chiefly through the nerve of a " wild Irish girl," a servant at a farmhouse, who had never seen a tiger in her life, and who, regarding it as a mere " curiosity," led her master and his sons to the spot where she had seen the beast basking in the sun. And all this wrecking of a railroad-train, this destruction of property, and this danger to life and limb, simply because an elephant, who had been made once sick by chewing tobacco, resented the attempt to make him chew it again. Rut boys and men will smoke or chew or drink, be taken horribly sick from the effects of tobacco or liquor, and yet will persist in smoking, chewing, or drinking (or all three) till the very indulgence which once made them sick becomes a very necessity of their lives from habit. It was thus in my case ; and, ere I was sixteen years of age, I was both a smoker and a drinker, and sometimes, alas! a profane swearer also. And I had drifted into being a " hanger round " bar-rooms and beer-saloons, and had become quite a frequenter of the thea- tre, when I could get a " free " ticket, or could obtain what is 16 ON THE DOWNWABD ROAD. known as a '^ bill-board " admission ; i.e., a ticket given in re- turn for distributing dodgers, circulars, or other printed matter connected with a theatre, or for V posting bills." I have nothing to say here against the theatre properly con- ducted, and I have certainly nothing to say for it in general ; but this I must and will say, that it is a dangerous place for a boy, such as I then was, to form the habit of attending, especially without the restraint of the presence of some older member of his family. I suppose that the majority of actors, actresses, and theatre-goers will confess this much at least. The theatre is assuredly not the proper place for the child, the lad ; and it was one of the worst phases of my downward career at this time, that my evenings were passed, not around the domestic fireside (alas ! I had then no fireside to sit around), but under the glare of the gaslights, and under the spell of the footlights, and in the midst of companions of my own age, whose choice delights were drinking and smoking, and whose highest joy was to at- tend a theatre. I was thus fairly (or foully) started on the road to perdition, and yet I knew it not. The terrible serpent that was encircling me in his folds gave no warning. I heard not his awful hiss ; I felt not the deadly venom of his fangs ; but all unconscious I wooed him, like the poor bird which stands entranced, and flies helpless to its own destruction. And it is ever thus with crime. " Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen ; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. * CHAPTER III. A BOY DRUNKARD. —TWO WEEKS IN A BAR-ROOM A8 AMATEUR BAR* TENDER. — A LOVE-STORY WITH A DOUBLY DISASTROUS TERMINATION. '- THE DEPTHS OF YOUTHFUL DEGRADATION. Among the "friends" (Heaven forgive me for using this sacred word in this connection !) — among the acquaintances I had formed at this time, was a young man who was a bar-tender at one of the saloons which I frequented, and who had taken quite a fancy to me for some reason or other, or perhaps with- out any reason at all. This young man was, I suppose, quite as honest, as honesty goes, as the average bar-keeper : he did not, I presume, abstract any more than the usual percentage from the " till " of the proprietor of the place ; he did not exact any more than the bar-keeper's ordinary "commission" on " sales," and returned as large a proportion of the liquor-money to his " boss " as the rest of his class and occupation. But he was " courting " a young woman who lived in the vicinity of the saloon, and who was herself quite in demand among the swains of Montreal. The young bar-keeper had several rivals, and among them a young mechanic who came to see the young lady regularly every evening after his day's wort, was done, and whose addresses were received with favor by the young lady's mother ; though the girl herself, girl-like, rather affected the young bar-tender, who was decidedly good-looking. Find- ing the young mechanic at the house every night, and seeing the mother's preference for him, the young bar-keeper made it a point, as much as possible, to call upon the daughter during « IT 18 WORSUIPPINQ A JiAIi-TENDER. I 1 the clay, when he had the fiekl all to himself; the mother beiiif^ engaged in household duties, and the mechanic being hard at work at his shop. Ihit, to do this courting by daylight, he was obliged to neglect his duties by day, such as they were, at the saloon at which he was employed. Although this neglect of duty sat lightly on his conscience, still he was glad when the idea occurred to him one day to get me to tend bar during hi>* absences. He saw that I had nothing to do, — which was un- fortunately the case ; that I had a neat, quick way with my hands, — which was also the case ; that I was popular among a certain set of drinking boys and men, and might induce a certain amount of custom, — which was the case, most unfortu- nately of all. But his chief dependence was my affection and respect and admiration for himself, — feelings which really ex- isted for him in my breast. All boys are hero-worshipr at heart. They detest sham instinctively; but, down at t at- torn of his being, every boy cherishes some ideal, good or bad, and gives it the tangible shape of some man or woman, or per- haps some boy or girl, whom he knows and worships. The idol luay be unworthy of its shrine, and disgrace its worship- per ; but it is adored nevertheless, with a zeal seldom given to the idols of later life. And I worshipped just then, I idealized and idolized, a bar-keeper. I moulded myself after his fashion. I took him for my pattern as far as I could, in style of dress and in manner. He was fond, I remember, of wearing his col- lar loose around his neck, — a turn-down collar, rather wide ; I wore a similar collar, after a similar fashion : he affected colored handkerchiefs; I invested a considerable proportion of my " petty cash " in colored handkerchiefs : he had a rather free and easy sailor-like gait; I tried to compass a similar variety of locomotion, though I only indifferently succeeded : he was fond of "slang," and possessed a copious- vocabulary thereof; I absolutely devoted myself assiduously to acquiring J I ;» "A GENTLEMAN'S SON." 19 ivll the " slang " words I could hear or remember, and becnme sufficiently versed in "■arffot'* to have pleased in that respect a Victor Hugo. Ilud my iilol been a great and a good man, and had I imitated him with a like sincerity, I would have been the pattern boy of my time ; but, as ray model was onl;' a bar-tender, I became what I was. But, such as I was, I suited the young bar-tender's purposes exactly ; and I was installed as locum tenens while he was "courting." I received strict instructions not to " give away any " liquor, to allow no " free " drinks. I was told on no account to permit anybody behind the bar, or to allow anybody to help himself, except in the regular way, from a bottle placed before him on the counter, in exchange for currency. I was cautioned not to be "too thick " or intimate with my boy companions, to ever preserve in my intercourse with them a certain olBcial dignity (?) ; save the mark, and to keep an eye to business. Above all, I was warned, not to trifle with the receipts, not to " knock down '' any, but to return faithfully to the bar-keeper every coin that J received from customers. These were rather strange cautions and instructions to be given by a bar-tender to a gentleman's son : but degradation, like misery, makes strange companions ; and I received my orders with submissive complacency, and at first sincerely endeavored to obey them. It may seem strange ; but I really felt a certain pride in my position, and endeavored, boy as I was, to make a model bar-keeper. Had I been " the head boy of my class," or the prize scholar of a Sunday scuool, I could not have felt more the " dignity " of my position. I was puffed out with a sense of my own importance, — almost weighed down with a realization of my responsibilities. I strutted around the bar-room as though I were the proprietor thereof. The real proprietor, by the by, was therx absent from the city, and little "tlrearaed of what was transpiring in his absence. 20 ONE OF THE "BEST FELLOWS IN THE WORLD.'' For a while all went smoothly; and I seemed to give gene al satisfaction, — to all but my boy cronies. They certainly ex- pected, when they saw me assume the position of bar-keeper, that they would have " the free run " of the bar-room ; and, when they found that they were mistaken in this idea, they called me names, and tried to make fun of me, and then got downrigh*- angry, and sent me, in their boyish way, to Coventry, withdrew their companionship from me, and at last patronized an opposition saloon across the way. I saw this was going too far, and relaxed my dignity ; and, availing myself of my privilege as bar-keeper to invite the boys occasionally to a drink, I managed to prevent the entire with- drawal of their patronage. On the whole, for the first week, I discharged my rather per- plexing duties with a conscience and a tact worthy of some- thing far better, and received the approval of my idol, the young bar-keeper ; who, seeing that I was doing well, and becoming himself more and more absorbed in his courtship, relaxed in his watchfulness over me, and let me do pretty much as I pleased. And then I followed suit, tand relaxed my own Watch- fulness over myself. Hitherto, oddly enough, my very freedom to drink now all that I wanted had led me to rather less indul- gence than usual ; but, after the first week, I yielded to my pro- pensity for stimulants, and became one of the " best customers " of my own bar. I blush to write it, even now, after all thes& years ; but I became habitually and constantly under the influ- ence of liquor, and, during the second week of my bar-tending, hardly ever drew a sober breath. And my conviviality increased with my intemperance. I " treated " my boy companions more frequently, and " trusted '* them for drinks more and more, till at last I had more than regained my original popularity with them, and was known a» one of " the best fellows " in the world, — a sure sign that I wa» II •1 If TRAINING FOB A FIRST-CLASS RASCAL 21 becoming one of " the worst." It now became c^^ Uar thing to find some dozen or more lads at the saloon evc^y morning, drinking and making merry at the expense of the " bar," — iiii assemblage of youthful sots, with myself as head toper. I stationed a boy at the door of the saloon to keep watch, in case the bar-tender should suddenly return ; and, meanwhile, the stock of liquors, cigars, and small-beer was suffering depletion at an alarming rate. Once, while in the midst of our orgies, tlie boy outside rushed in with the news that the bar-tender was coming. I managed to get some of my companions out by a side-door, and I con- cealed some others in a closet ; while I stepped behind the bar, and pretended to be busily engaged in serving drinks to two of the oldest lads, who I made it a point to see paid for their liquor. The bar-tender then suspected nothing, and did not remain long. But, during the ten minutes of his stay, I contrived to add the sins of lying and dishonesty to my other transgressions. For I deliberately falsified the receipts of the bar, and lied wholesale about every thing connected with the management of the saloon. And, as soon as the bar-tender left, our orgies were resumed. I was in rapid course of training for a first-class rascal. So far no contretemps had occurred ; but I noticed that my idol, the bar-tender, began to be less spruce and jovial than his wont, and to neglect the fit of his coijir, — a sure sign that something was the matter. As I afterv, ards ascertained, his suit with the >oung lady was, spite of all his exertions, and outlay of time and " taflFy," not progressing favorably ; and the me- chanic was gaining ground, not only with the mother, but the daughter. This rendered him moody, irritable, and suspicious ; and ab last the " flare-up " came. wmmm 22 . KICKED OUT INTO TUE STREET. One morning he summoned up courage to propose direct to his young lady, was refused point-blank, and was told by the mother not to enter the house of his charmer again. This rendered him wild with rage and chagrin ; and in this mood he rushed back to the saloon, to drown his sorrows in spirits. At that precise moment I was surrounded by some ten lads, all drinking freely at my (or, rather, the establishment's) expense. And, as luck would have it, I had forgotten this morning to station my usual " lookout " at the main door. In walked the angry bar-keeper, in stalked upon us the dis- comfited lover; and, although the shock sobered me for a moment, I was at my wit's end. I saw that my time had come. In vain I flew around, or tried, with my unsteady legs, to seem to do so. In vain I tried to convince the bar-tender that I was working for his interest. The room was filled with my companions, all more or less intoxicated. The vile stuff which formed the only stock in trade of the accursed place was con- siderably reduced, while the money-drawer made no corre- sponding exhibit. An investigation ensued, — short, searching, and decisive. The bar-keeper's eyes were opened now ; and he took in the presc; t situation and the recent past, in a glance. Cursing his folly, his love, his mechanic-rival, and himself, he began to curse me and my companions. And then — I blush to say it — he kicked us boys all out into the street, commen- cing with me as the principal offender. It had come to this. I, the son of a gentleman, well born and carefully reared, the child of hopes and prayers, was called "a young loafer," — and deserved to be called it, — and was kicked out into the streets, — and deserved to be kicked, — by a bar-tender. For a moment I was too dazed and too drunk to fully real- ize my indignities. I only felt the physical pain inflicted by my chastisement. Then I began to feel a positive mental or m / ! I ^:r "•So you aro K«ttinK to he a tlninkanl, and stfialing my rum,' tliu bar- keeper had said to me, as he gave me his last kick into the street " [p. 23], A DliUNKABD AND A LOAFER. 23 --^//' sentimental pain, in thus having broken the bond that had linked me to my boyish idol, the bar-keeper, whose kicks still smarted. And at last I experienced a sense of my own degra- dation, — a bitter sense of the depths to which I had fallen. " So you are getting to be a drunkard, and stealing my rum," the bartender liad said to me as he gave me his last kick into the sidewalk. And the words rang in my ears, — a loafer and a drunkard — a drunkard and a loafer. A mere boy, and yet both. With these awful, because true, words sounding in my ears, I staggered (I would have rushed, but I was too drunk to " rush ") away from my companions, and burst into tears, — tears of shame, tears of real though unavailing penitence, — which, could I have shed them under a father's eye, or with a head buried on a mother's lap, might have been such tears as the Peri in the poem would have gladly presented to the Most High as the most acceptable of all offerings. But, alas ! practically fatherless, motherless, and homeless as I was, the tears soon subsided into a moodiness of shame, in which I remembered only the degradation of the kick, but forgot the still greater degradation of its cause. And all that day I wandered aimless through the streets of Montreal, utterly wretched; and the night closed upon me as far from real reformation as when the day began. What could be more truly terrible than my position ? I was a gentleman's son, and had been kicked out of a low drinking* saloon. I was a mere boy; yet I had been called a diunkard and a loafer, and had deserved my titles. / \ui bar- 23]. ip CHAPTER IV. " I M A. BAD boy's DBEAM. — a DBUNKARD'S NIGHTMARE. — " BAR-ROOM FRIEND- SHIPS," THEIB WORTH AND WOBTHLE88NE9S. — A YOUTHFUL SINNER AND HIS SORROWS. —HOW A BOY DRUNKARD WAS SAVED. If it were not for the duty I owe my readers, I would pass over very briefly this dark period of my early life. But I wish others to derive benefit from my experiences ; and, therefore, my first evident paramount duty is, to record my experiences just as they really were, not as I would prefer now to represent them. I was " a bad boy," with the curse of an already acquired desire for stimulating drinks daily fastening itself more firmly upon me. If any fact more deplorably pitiable than this can be stated, I have not yet found out this fact, nor would I know how to state it. I went down hill rapidly, suffering step by step as I went down. After my experiences in the saloon where I " tended bar," I carefully avoided entering that place : but there were other saloons ; and I patronized these, so far as my daily de- creasing means would allow. I got into the habit of picking up little stray jobs, any thing to get a little money, but not to buy clothes with, though I was " seedy " and " shabby ; " not to purchase even food with, though I was occasionally com- pelled now to " go hungry ; " not to relieve the necessities of my scattered family, — but to gratify my accursed thirst for strong drink. As fast as I earned in any way a little money, 24 M FltlEXD- li SINNER uld pass 1 1 wish lerefore, eriences spresent cquired ( firmly can be [ know I went tended e were ilj de- )icking not to ;" not J com- ities of 'st for noney, / " One night I luul fallen asleep drunk in a cart near a stable. I awoke with a terrible headache, to tind the rain pouring down upon me " [p. 25]. AN OUTCAST'S DEE AM. 26 I would hie me to some saloon, some gilded or not gilded " rum- « hole," and spend it. Often the shades of evening would creep over the earth, find- ing me at my unholy revels, with all sorts and conditions of low companions. And then, finding that I was unfit to appear in the presence of any decent man or woman, I would slink away, supperless, about nine or ten o'clock at night, to some •out-house or cellar or empty wagon, and sleep away my de- bauch. One night I had fallen asleep drunk in a cart near a stable. I awoke with a terrible headache, to find the rain pouring ■down upon me. Dripping wet, I arose, and walked to and fro, from one place of temporary shelter to another, an object which ■even the horses and the cattle in the stables could have pitied. But yet I never repented of the fault and folly which was thus rendering me a fit object for even a brute beast's pity. No : -all the time I stood and watched the ceaseless rain, or tried vainly to sleep in my wet rags, — for they were scarcely more, — I was consumed with the cursed thirst that had caused all my troubles. I was eagerly craving a chance for " a drink." My morbid fancy was conjuring up, in my lonely desolation, vis- ions of a warm, comfortably elegant room, with mirrors and •chandeliers and tables and a fine " counter," and an array of bottles, full of wine and spirits, with a plentiful supply of •cigars, — a room in which I was the central figure, the lord and the proprietor thereof, enjoying myself with and enriching myself by my customers. In my fancy I saw myself mixing ■drinks: in my fancy I felt myself drinking them. I could almost taste the liquor as it poured down ray parched throat. And in my temporary delirium I cried aloud, although there were none to hear but the all-hearing spirits of good and evil, " Yes, I will some day somehow realize this dream : somehow, sometime, somewhere, I will keep a bar-room, — my own bar-> / 20 A TERRIBLE VOW. room." Thus, in the irtorm and the night, I made a vow tO" become some day, sooner or later, a rumseller, with a "gin- mill " of my own. It was a singularly sad vow for a mere boy to register. It evinced what may be termed an ambitious depth of depravity, but I am recording the simple truth ; and I really made the vow, under the circumstances I have de- scribed. And, as the course of this narrative will show, I after- wards fulfilled it. It seems almost incredible, that in so short a time I should have been brought to this condition ; but thus I was, and I saw not the doom that awaited me. I look back now on this- period of my life, and wonder why I was spared ; but a mer- ciful Providence spared me. And, thank God 1 the same kind hand has plucked me as a brand from the burning ; and I have- lived to warn my fellow sinners and sufferers, both by my voicfr and my pen, and to denounce that terrible tyrant, alcohol, a* the most malignant of all the fiends that hell, with all its in- finite spite and fury, can belch forth upon the earth. My situation at this period of my career was wretched ia the extreme, and became more miserable every day. Indepen- dent of my terrible faults, my woes were terrible: my poor mother in the hospital, my father a bankrupt, my sister out in the world, and the rest of us wretched ones with only the humblest, barest shelter, and often deprived of fire and of food. And now I began to feel one of the bitterest pangs of pov- erty, — the scorn of those who had known me in better days. Hitherto I had contrived, by hook or by crook, to have a little money to spend, even though I spent it in rum, and although I had in every way misapplied it ; but now the hour came when I was literally penniless. I had been shabby iiii clothes for a considerable period, and had become, as it were* used to it. I had grown accustomed to cold and to scanty BAR-BOOM FBIENDSUIPS. 27 food; I had even become accustomed to omitting the custom of taking my regular meals, because there were no regular meals for me to take ; but I had always been able, no matter at what risk or sacrifice, to have enough money to pay for an occasional drink for myself and a few boon companions, whose society^ such as it was, I courted, and with whom I was still, to a certain degree, popular. But now, face to face with absolute penury, I had no means to cater to bar-room popularity. Without a shilling, I was compelled to be without a drink and without a friend. True» for a day or so I was able to " drink," and even to " treat," on credit. But when I tried to solicit new favors, without settling the old score, my doom was sealed. I was then stamped as a "beat" and a "pauper," and I was driven out of the very bar- rooms in which I had spent my money freely when I had it. I was forbidden to enter the very places whose coffers I had helped to fill. To my depraved mind and vicious habits, these bar-rooms represented all I knew and cared of comfort. The tavern, God help me ! had taken the place of the home ; and, when I was turned out of the drinking-saloons, it seemed to me as if I had been expelled from life and happiness. I felt like Adam when driven out of Eden. I experienced then what hundreds and thousands have ex- jjerienced before me, and will, alas! I fear, experience after me, — the utter worthlessness of bar-room friendships. Had I been wise, this lesson, impressed so forcibly upon me at so early an age, would have had a beneficial effect upon me ; but alas, alas! I was doomed to sin and suffer on, perhaps that my career might have a more beneficial effect upon others. It is often urged, in extenuation of drinking, that it is a so- cial habit, and that through it valuable acquaintances are often formed. Alas I there is no ipore pernicious falsehood than this 28 " DRINKING-A CQ UA IN TANCES. ' ' for it is one of those glitteriiigly dangerous lies that are partly — and only a small part — true. Acquaintances are formed through drinking-habits, doubt- less, but not acquaintances worth the risk of drinking, not acquaintances really valuable, honestly worth the having — oh, no, no ! a thousand times no ! In a thousand drinks the drinker cannot hope to gain one friend. It could not be otherwise ; for certainly, if drinking-habits Avere honestly calculated to pijmote sincere friendships, then would intemperance be excusable, — almost a wisdom, not a folly ; almost a duty, not a vice. So great a believer, for one, am I in the moral beauty and practical value of true friendship, that, if I honestly believed that I'wtemperance fostered friend- ship, I would cease to advocate temperance. But, thank God 1 the truth is just the other w.y. Intemper- ance, like all vice, is unfavorable to virtue, and, among other virtues, to true friendship. Bar-room friendships, the intima- cies of intemperance, are merely superficial. They last only as long as the liquor lasts : they are bounded by the limits of the bar-room. I met a commercial drummer once out West, and he had a favorite phrase to designate such people as he only casually or slightly knew. Speaking of a man of this sort, the drummer would allude to him as "only a drinking-acquaint- ance ; " and the phrase struck me as a very suggestive and ap- posite one. Believe me, O my reader I the men you drink with are not " friends," they are only " drinking-acquaintances." I was, at this period of my life, forced to learn this truth. Not only did the proprietors and employees of the bar-rooms where I had spent my money, when I had it, ruthlessly expel me from them when I had no more to spend, but my more intimate companions, lads of my own age, my fellow-boys, to use a most common and expressive phrase, "went back "jm tne," turned me the cold shoulder, and abandoned me. \i BOY-GRIEFS. 29 I In the slang of boys nowadays they regarded me as " N. G. : '* I was " played out." Among my companions had been, for several months, a young lad, whose father was in tiomfortable circumstances, and allowed him a good deal (and a good deal too much) pocket- money, which never remained long in his pocket, but found its way to the pockets of the men who dealt in cigars, liquors, or dime novels, — three commodities which, with boys of a. certain class, generally go together; and all go one way, — to the Devil. I had taken a sincere liking to this particular lad, and we had been a good deal together. I had even done him now and then little favors ; but now, when in my poverty I solicited a favor, — a loan of a little money, — it was refused on some specious plea, such as boys, in an emergency, are quite as ready with as men ; and from that moment the boy avoided me, as if I had been stricken with the small-pox : he would leave a saloon if he saw me entering it ; he would turn round the street- corner if he saw me approaching. I felt this keenly, although I was too proud to show it. But, though I preserved a certain amount of boyish dignity (there is such a thing, as every boy or man who remembers his boyhood cai^ testify) in the presence of others, I wept many a bitter tear in secret, more over the loss of the once delightful companionship and the destruction of my cherished dreams, than over the more material depriva- tions to which it subjected me. Boy-griefs are as hard to bear for boys, as after-sorrows are for men ; and my grief just then was bitter. Another lad with whom I had become intimate was a trades- man's son, of a less literary turn in the line of dime novels than the boy just mentioned. The former might be classed among lads of a somewhat "sentimental" turn of mind, but the tradesman's son was ef>sentially "practical." He prided w II \l*] !' I 'i i so A *'KNOWiyG" CUAP. himself, even at his early age, on " knowing the world " (that is, such parts or phases of the world as were not worth know- ing) ; and he had been looked up to by other boys, and by myself, as quite an " oracle." This " knowing " chap soon taught me that he " knew " me, — knew how utterly hopeless and moneyless was my condition ; for when I came to him and asked him, in my extremity, for a little pecuniary aid. he told me, with " a brutal frankness " which would liave pleased Bismarck, that he had all he could do to take care of himself, and that he didn't propose to do any thing for anybod}'^ for nothing. " If I wanted some money, why didn't I pick it up for myself, as he did? " Now, as I wasn't as " posted " on horse-flesh and cards as this jockey and gamester of fifteen years, and as I had not yet made as many disreputable acquaintances as he had done, and could not therefore do as many " odd " dirty jobs for them as he was constantly doing, I was not able to " pick up money for myself as he did ; " although, alas 1 I fear that I was quite as willing to " pick it " up this or any other way just then, had I been able. Thank Heaven ! though bad enough, I never then, or at any other time in my life, was tempted to steal. I had no scruples of conscience against vice. I had become familiarized, child as I still was, with many kinds of low iniquity. I had soiled my hands and soul at various times with petty swindling and cheating, — as in my episode as amateur bar-tender, already de- scribed. But I had never directly stolen. And now, in my utterly penniless condition, even now, I was not induced to steal, to become wimt is even one step lower than a drunkard, — a thief. I thank Heaven for this. But I was indescribably miserable. Perhaps in all my after- life I never suffered more than I suffered now as a boy, — a boy without parents — practically so ; a boy without home ; a boy THE HAD nor. 31 without money ; and a boy without friends. God help the boy who feels Jis I felt then ' Hungry and cold, and ''h.ibby to the last stage of shabbiness, thirsting with a young drunkard's ever unsatisfied and fiery thirst, without a dcjUar, and, what was even worse to me then, without a companion in the world, I brooded solitary over my sorrows. Though I had lived but a few short years, yet I wjis uu rady weary of life. Mere boy as I was, existence seemed to me a conundrum, — a terrible conundrum; and like Smith, in Broug- Imnrs " Pocahontas," I felt inclined to "lie down and give it up." Though but a boy, I now for a moment felt all that mad desire for self-annihilation which oftentimes possesses the world-wearied, life-exhausted man. True, I thought with a little regret of the dear father and mother whom I was never to see again. True, I looked back fondly in memory to the dear home under the wing of the grand cathedral. True, I ri'inembered fcjudly some pleasant sports in summers and in winters past. 15 ut I also felt vividly my present loneliness, my poverty, my broken home, my desolation, my lost, false, heart- less companions. And I thought, in my moody, boyish way, that if I was once dead, — once but dead, — all my hungering and thirsting and shivering, and being laughed at and sneered at, and shunned and snubbed, would be over and ended , a. id I would be out of the way, and life would be out of the way, for- ever. While standing o'le dark night at a street-corner, terribly desp.tndent, I heard a voice — a cheery, heart}' voice — cry out, " Why, Doutney, what are you doing here?" What was I doing, indeed ? I looked round, and saw a young lad of my ac(iuaintance approaching. He was not one of my " drinking acquaintances," — oh, no ! The unsophisticated lad who was now approaching me had never, prob ibly, been in- 82 THE GOOD BOY. side a bar-room in his dull, uneventful, humdrum life. He» quiet chap, wfis not in the habit of attending the theatre, and I suppose would not have known what " a bill-board ticket '* meant. He knew so little of the world, this mere boy, that I do not suppose he could distinguish by taste the difference be* tween whiskey and brandy. He was what boys of my class, had been wont to call a " muff," or " a milksop," — a boy who- attended Sunday school, didn't know how to play cards, didn't smoke, didn't swear, didn't do any thing that was done by boys- of spirit, and spirits like myself. But still, there he was, ad- vancing towards me, happy, healthy, hearty, well-clad, going home, I supposed, to family prayers maybe, but still to a family and a home. Wliile I — I, who a few weeks ago would have despised this happy milksop and " good boy " — was — But, before I could fully realize the contrast between us two, the boy had come up to the corner where I stood with despair in my soul. And then — to this hour I cannot distinctly re- member how it all came about — but in a moment more I found myself telling my companion all about myself, my faults, my folly. I found myself crying, with my head on his shoulder,. — crying like a child, indeed, — crj'ing as if my heart would break. The boy liad asked a few childish questions, said a few childishly kind words; and the flood-gates of my heart had been opened. His utterly unexpected kindness had healed the wounds inflicted upon my heart by the as utterly unexpected desertion of my former companions. His soothing sympathy had brought me back from desperate, moody despair to healthy, human sorrow, which, shared by another, was lessened, almost sweetened. In a few minutes I, the boy-drunkard, who had naturally, step by step, become tlie boy-outcast, was walking almost hap- pily side by side with a boy — a pious. God-fearing boy — whom I had previously only sneered at and despised. And, in a^few* I A BOY SAVED BY A BOY. 83 the Icted ithy lost illy, lap- lom Ifew minutes more, I, the homeless wanderer of the streets, was in the midst of a happy home-circle, seated beside a cheerful fire^ eating with a relish, and drinking, not vile whiskey or beer, but harmless, healthful tea ; while my boy-preserver bustled about, doing all he could, in company with his little sister, to make me as comfortable as possible. His father and mother had known my father and mother years before ; and for their sakes and mine, and, above all, in- duced by their own goodness and kindness, they were that night and the next day very good and kind to me, a waif and a stray. That night, instead of lying in a gutter, perhaps passing from insensibility into eternity, I was snugly tucked up in a com- fortable bed, with my boy-preserver as my room-mate. And bad boy as I was, degraded drunkard, and almost desperate and reckless as I had been that night, I felt grateful to a God in whom I had that night learned to believe, by the irresistible argument of being brought into contact with those who believed in and loved and served Him. And when my boy-preserver, just before going to bed, knelt down at his bedside, and said the Lord's Prayer, I did not then think or call him a cad or a muff or a milksop : I did not then sneer or laugh at the pious Sunday-school boy. No : I felt then and there, in my inmost heart of hearts, that he was wiser in his innocence, on his knees, with his prayers, than a thousand such as I of bar-room loafers and loungers. And, feeling this, I humbly crept to his side, fell on my knees with him, and for the first time, alas I for yeara, prayed to " Our Father who art in Heaven." ' : : i The tide had turned. My evil fortunes had reached their lowest ebb at the moment of my deepest despair and my provi- dential preservation. From that moment good luck, or, shall I not more reverently say, a kind Providence, continued to smile upon me. Just as the kind, truly Christian father and mother of my boy-preserver took me in hand, to see if they could not procure me a situation in some store or office, to keep me independent, and to keep me out of mischief, I received a letter from my dear father, informing me that good fortune had befallen him also, and that now he had arranged for me to come to Boston, where I could live and be educated at the House of the Angel Guardian in Roxbury. This was far from being a brilliant future, but it was cer- tainly far better than the life I had been leading of late ; and it was preferable, I thought, to working hard in some office or place of business : so I immediately obeyed my father's sum- mons ; and, bidding a grateful good-by to my benefactors, I started on the train from Montreal to Boston. I had an- nounced my departure for Boston to a number of my compan- ions, and had made the most of my good luck in narrating to them, and unconsciously exaggerating, the " good luck '* which bad happened to my father. I had enough of ** human nature " '!l if HUMAN NATURE IN BOYS. 35 in me to make a point of dilating upon my rose-colored pros- pects to those who had snubbed me and been cold to me in my recent misfortunes. I was particularly eloquent upon my future prospects (?) in the presence of my former companions, the dime-novel reader and tlie young lad of a " practical " turn of mind, who had treated my misfortunes with such indiffer- ence. I must have led them to imagine that my father had been left a large fortune, and that I was rich for life ; and I heartily enjoyed the changed manner of these and. my other companions towards me. I noticed how much more cordial and even respectful they were to me now than before ; and I Iieartily enjoyed the change, though I cordially despised them for changing. It is a mistake to suppose that boys are not as selfish and as politic as men. " The boy is the father of the man ; " and just as " the world " and worldly ideas and inter- •ests control the man, so they modify, if they do not positively control, the boy. The boy whose father is " in luck " will be held, among most other boys, to be in luck himself, and will receive a share of attention and admiration much greater th&n will generally be awarded to the son of a poor or unfortunate father. So I, a boy about to be sent on to the great city of Boston, where I was to live comfortably and be educated (that was the idea I gave out, in fact that was the idea I entertained myself, not exactly knowing what the peculiar character of "The House of the Angel Guardian " might be), was considered and treated very differently from the way I had been treated but recently, when I had been regarded as an almost pauper boy, the son of a ruined man, who had not a dollar in the world. Under ordinary circumstances I would have commemorated my " good luck," such as it was, by drinking, and by inviting my companions to drink; but I am glad to be able to state that I did nothing of the kind jut»t then. I had had enough 86 A COLD- WATER HOUSEHOLD. •' \\ of drinking for a while. I had not yet become the constant, confirmed, inveterate slave of intoxicating drink. I was but a young fool, and therefore not quite so persistently foolish as an old fool. I had my lucid intervals, and this was one of them. Besides, I have always been of a very impressionable nature, — a temperament which has alike its great advantages and disadvantages, but of which I reaped one of the advantages now. I was completely at this period under the blessed influence of the temperate and Christian family which had rescued me from despair and possibly from death. The head of this happy houL'jhold, the husband and father, was a sincere and sensible temperance advocate, both in theory and practice ; and I had been forcibly impressed, and, under the circum- stances, most favorably. I was too young, perhaps, to have fully understood all the " total-abstinence " arguments ; but I could already understand, ay, better than most grown men, the inestimable advantages of "total-abstinence" practices. I could not help being led to contrast the health, the steady happiness, the industry and peace and order, of this "cold- water" household, with the heated life and disorder and racket and dissipation of the bar-rooms and saloons which had for so long now stood to me in the place of a home. Nor could I help contrasting my boy-preserver, the only son and pride and hope of this temperance household, with his ruddy cheeks, his bright eyes, his sturdy frame, his well-regulated nerves, his excellent digestion, his regular sleep, and his love for out-door exercise, with the sunken cheeks, the wasted frame, the wild or dulled eyes, the "shaky" nerves, the ruined health, lost appetite, and inert indigestion, which characterized so many of the boys and men whom I knew as addicted to drink. I was no fool, except when directly under the influence of my curse : and I saw how infinitely preferable was temperance .: MY UNEXPECTED COMPANIONS. 87 uence jd me P this •e and ictice ;. ircum- ( have but I men» iCtices. teady cold- and 1 had could pride leeks, es, hi» t-door ! wild 1, lost many - to intemperance ; and therefore, while under the influence and in the bosom of this well-regulated household, I was perfectly sober and temperate myself, and began to regain my health, which had been severely shattered by my recent course of life, and to even enjoy life once more in a healthy, rational fashion, as a boy should. I became greatly attached to my boy-preserver and to his 'nteresting family, and they became sincerely fond of me. But it was thought best all round, that I should follow my father's wishes, and, going to Boston, avail myself of whatever he had prepared for me there. So, as I stated some pages previously, I took the train from Montreal to Boston ; but I did not start alone. I had two un- asked for, unexpected companions, — two lads considerably younger even than myself, who insisted on accompanying me, and in a rather peculiar fashion. Among my Montreal com- panions had been two boys, cousins and chums, the children of two respectable tradesmen of my father's acquaintance. There was nothing remarkable or striking about tho characters of those two lads ; they were not specially bright or provokingly dull ; they were neither abnormally good nor bad ; but they had cultivated a taste for " light literature " in the story-paper and " dime-novel " form, until this taste had grown into a positive mania. They had read all sorts of " boys' books " (which, by the by, are often the very worst possible kind of books for boys), and were perfect walking libraries of juvenile "flash-literature." They spent all their pocket-money, not for vile spirits, as I had been doing, but for almost equally pernicious printed stuff, which demoralized their little minds as my liquid "stuff" had demoralized my youthful nerves. They were regular readers of the "police" papers, and the flash "story-papers," and books of wild — very wild — " adventure " in the Far — very, 38 DIME-NOVEL LUNATICS. i li ■■ ■i !l very far — West. Most boys are prone to what may be styled " dime novel "-ism. I had met other lads with this tendency, as I have previously mentioned ; but these two boys were the two most confirmed dime-novel lunatics I ever remember coming across. Pirates were as familiar to them as pies, possibly more so. Buccaneers of the Spanish (it generally is the Spanish) Main were as common as their daily bread and butter. The big, bloody Indian, with his waistband full of recking scalps, was their pocket-companion; and they were experts in all varieties of the war-whoop. The Italian bandit, with his beautiful captive hidden in a cave in the dense forests, and a stiletto carried in his hand, was an every-day affair ; and mur- der, suicide, poisoning, scuttling of ships, cutting of throats, etc., were as much in their line as playing marbles or hockey, — if any thing, more in it. Jack Sheppard was their idol, their hero : Dick Turpin was the very god of their idolatry. They knew ten times more about the history of Jonathan Wild than they did about the history of England. And from reading books of adventure, and believing in them, to becoming adventurers themselves, was but a step. From dreaming of highwaymen and bucca- neers and wild Indians, to endeavoring to imitate their bloody and exciting excellences, was only a natural progression. So when these two bloody minded, blood-and-thunder literary lads heard that I was going to "see life," and "begin the world " at Boston, — the great Boston, — they determined to go with me, in search of adventure and glory and gore, and hidden treasure and scalps. " The young rovers of Montreal," or " the two bold buccaneers of Boston," would be about their " size " of manliness ; and they made their preparations on this basis. They raked and scraped all the money they could get to- gether, by selling out their stock of tops and marbles, and borrowing right and left under all sorts of lying pretences, — for it THE PIRATES OF THE FUTURE. 89 m was more ut the inture, selves, bucca- loody n. terary 11 the to go iddeii "the size asis. et to- i, and — for lying, of course, was a mere bagatelle to amateur pirates and prospective murderers, — and even stealing from their mothers and fathers, just by way of preparation for future burglaries. With the money thus surreptitiously acquired, — some shillings, — the would-be scoundrels oi the deepest dye purchased an outfit of deliberate viliany, comprising two big clasp-knives, coming as near to the bowie-knife of Western civilization as their limited means would allow ; two fifth or sixth hand pistols, which were warranted to kill, and which certainly, if they ever had gone off, tcould have killed those who fired them off; powder, etc. ; and, of course, a deck of cards, some tobacco, and a " pocket-pistol " of whiskey, without which last three articles they never could have undertaken to be cut-throats or pirates of any pretence to criminal standing. Having thus provided for all the possibilities of piracy and rapine, the two incipient villains of the deepest hue stole from their homes by the back- door, gliding off as quietly and speedily as possible, lest their mothers might see them, and call them back. Imagine two pirates of the future being called back home, and, it may be, spanked, by their mothers ! Having effected their escape, the two juvenile murderers, breathing the exhilarating air of liberty, emancipated from the thraldom of the parental roof, clutching their clasp-knives, and feeling fondly the pistols in their pockets, and their pocket-pistols, strode hastily toward the railroad-depot i the younger and more desperate ruffian of the two stopping on his way, however, to invest five cents in " taffy," — a sort of candy of which the youthful monster, notwithstanding his depravity, was very fond. Imagine a bloody-minded pirate sucking candy! The two desperate ruffians readied the train for the States a few minutes before the time for departure, and contrived to enter the hind-car, then empty, unobserved, and concealed themselves under the seats. illtH! t I •4 40 TWO MEMENTOS OF MONTREAL. All this was utterly unknown to me at the time ; the plan of the two desperadoes being, to wait till the train had started, with me on board, and then to reveal their presence to me, and to throw themselves on my generosity, friendship, and influence with the conductor. Two pirates, they imagined, in their innocence (?) of the world, that, because I had my fare paid for me to Boston, I must be a very rich and important boy indeed ! But, as chance arranged it, they did not have to wait till the train started to discover me ; or, rather, 1 discovered tliem. I took my place in the rear car, and sat me down right over one of the crouching pirates j talked to the kind lad who had been such a blessing to me, and who had ncompanied me to the train ; bade him good-by with tears ot real affection and grati- tude in my eyes, and just as I was reseating myself, after waving my hand to him from the window, saw a foot under my seat — started — then started still more, as I saw a head peer out, and recognized the head as belonging to one of my former companions, — one of those whom I was just then thinking I was leaving, perhaps, forever. To say that I was surprised, and then glad, is to use very mild language indeed. Luckily there was, just then, no one in the car to observe, either my wonder or my di^light. In a few hurried words I got from the two budding bucca- neers the general idea of their position and their intentions, and entered myself heartily into the situation. I had felt terri- bly lonely leaving my birthplace, my only home for so many years, Montreal. And here was a link supplied me by chance, a tie still connecting me with the dear old town, a memento of Montreal, — two mementos, — sent on, as it were, with me. I did not feel at all lonely now, with these two abandoned vil- lains lying at my feet. Of course, I smiled at their plans of plunder and piracy. I A PROTECTOB OF niGHWAY liOYfi. 41 vil- laughed at their schemes of unbridled license and adventure. I was several years older than either of the bloody-minded rascals, and liad never been so impressed with dime novels as to lose my head. That was not mt/ special weakness. I fully realized that Boston, from what little I had heard of it, was scarcely likely to prove the place for successful plunder, save by grown-up lawyers, politicians, and tradesmen, in the regular way ; I surmised that there was a very slim chance indeed f