* ' 
 
 

 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 

 
 \
 
 

 
 , .' 
 
 ./* 
 

 
 THE 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 OF 
 
 REAL LIFE. 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 L. ?. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 48 NORTH FOURTH ST.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1851, by 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 (n the Office of tho Clerk of the District Court of the United Stated, in 
 nd for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To all, as they pass through the world, come " light and 
 shadow." Though the sun may be in the heavens, clouds 
 often intervene, and cast deep shadows about our footsteps. 
 But, it is a truth which we cannot too deeply lay to heart, 
 that, in our life, as in nature, the exhalations which form 
 the obscuring cloud arise from below. They are not born 
 in the pure heavens, but spring out of the earth beneath. 
 If there was nothing evil in the mind, there would be no 
 cloud in the sky of our being, all would be " eternal 
 sunshine." 
 
 If, therefore, in this book the lights and shadows are 
 blessed; if, in a word, the clouds often hang heavy and 
 remain long in the sky, the fault is in those whose histories 
 we have written. But the sky does not always remain dark. 
 As the heart becomes filled with better purposes through 
 the trials and pains of adversity, or comes out purer from 
 the furnace of affliction, the clouds disperse, and the blessed 
 sunlight comes again. Lay this up for your consolation, all 
 ye who are in trouble and affliction, and look hopefully in 
 the future. It will not always remain dark as in the present 
 time. 
 
 1 117-104
 
 PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ACCOMPANYING this volume, is a brief auto-biography. In 
 circulating Mr. Arthur's " Sketches of Life and Character/' 
 the publisher met so frequently with an expressed desire to 
 know something of one whose writings had made him a gene 
 ral favorite that he was led to solicit a personal sketch, to go 
 with a new collection of his writings. It is but due to the 
 author to say, that his concurrence in the matter was not 
 without considerable reluctance. From this sketch it will be 
 seen that Mr. Arthur is a self-made map, and that he has 
 gained his present enviable position through long and patient 
 labor, and against the pressure of much that was adverse and 
 discouraging. In his elevation he has this pleasing reflection, 
 that in seeking to gain a high place for himself, he has 
 dragged no one down, but rather, sought to carry along, in his 
 upward way, all who could be induced to go with him. 
 
 The portrait given in this volume, was engraved from one 
 recently painted by Lambdin, and is considered a very good 
 likeness. Mr. Arthur is now in his forty-second year, and 
 looks somewhat younger than the artist has represented him. 
 
 For the information of those who wish to procure Mr. 
 Arthur's Temperance Tales, the publisher would state, that in 
 " Lights and Shadows of Real Life," are included all the 
 stories contained in the recently issued edition of " Illustrated 
 Temperance Tales," besides nearly two hundred pages of 
 additional matter, thus making a larger, more miscellaneous, 
 and more acceptable book for all readers.
 
 BEIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Is compliance with the earnest request of the publisher of this volume, 
 I have, with a reluctance that I find it difficult to overcome, consented to 
 furnish a brief sketch personal to myself. Although my name has been 
 constantly appearing for some twelve or fifteen years, yet I have lost 
 none of that shrinking from notoriety and observation which made me 
 timid and retiring when a boy. The necessity to write as a means of 
 livelihood, and to write a great deal, has brought me so frequently before 
 the public, that I have almost ceased to think about the matter as any 
 thing more than an ordinary occurrence ; but, now, when called upon to 
 write about myself, I find that the edge of a natural sensitiveness is quite 
 as keen as ever. But, I will call the feeling a weakness, and try to re 
 press it until I have finished my present task. 
 
 I was born in the year 1809, near Newburgh, Orange County, New 
 York ; and my eyes first opened on the beautiful scenery of the Hudson. 
 My earliest recollection is of Fort Montgomery, some six miles below 
 West Point, on the river, where my parents resided for a few years pre 
 vious to 1817. In the Spring of that year, they removed to Baltimore, 
 which became my place of residence until 1841, when I came to Phila 
 delphia, where I have since lived. 
 
 My early educational advantages were few. There were no public 
 schools in Maryland, when I was a boy, and, as my father had a large 
 family and but a moderate income, he could afford to send his children to 
 school only for a limited period. He knew the value, however, of a good 
 education, and did all fcr us in his power. Especially did he seek to 
 inspire his children with a regard for religious truth, and, both by precept 
 
 (5)
 
 6 BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 
 
 and example, to lead them into the practice of such thi ng8 as were honest 
 and of good report. In all this, he was warmly seconded by a mother 
 who still survives, and forwhom, it is but just to say, that her children fe 
 the tenderest regard-and well may they do so, for they owe her much. 
 
 At school, I was considered a very dull boy. My memory was not 
 retentive, and I comprehended ideas and formulas expressed by others i 
 a very imperfect manner. I needed a careful, judicious, and patient teach- 
 cr who understood the character of my mind, and who was able to come 
 down to it with instruction in the simplest and clearest forms; thus help- 
 ing me to think for myself and to see for myself. Instead of this, I was 
 scolded and whipped because I could not understand things that were 
 never explained. As, for instance, a slate and pencil were placed in my 
 hands after I had learned to read, upon which was a sum in simple addi 
 tion for which I was required to find an answer. Now, in the word Ad 
 dition," as referring to figures, I saw no meaning. I did not comprehend 
 the fact, in connexion with it, that two and two made four. True, I had 
 learned my Addition Table," but, strangely enough, that did not furnish 
 me with any clue towards working out the problem of figures set for me on 
 my slate. I was then in my ninth year ; and I can remember, to this 4ay, 
 with perfect distinctness, how utterly discouraged I became, as day by day 
 went by, and still I had not found a correct result to any one of my sums, 
 nor gained a single ray of light on the subject. Strange as it may seem, 
 I remained for several months in simple addition before I knew how to 
 sum up figures, and then the meaning of addition flashed, in a sudden 
 thought upon my mind, while I was at play. I had no trouble after that. 
 During the next week, I escaped both scolding and " belaboring " (a fa 
 vorite phrase of my teacher's), and then passed on to subtraction. Fire 
 minutes devoted to an explanation, in some simple form, of what " Addi 
 tion " meant, would have saved me the loss of months, to say nothing of 
 the pain, both mental and bodily, that I suffered during the time. 
 
 With such a mind and such a teacher, it is no wonder that I made but 
 little progress during the few years that I went to school. Beyond read 
 ing and writing, Arithmetic and English Grammar included the entire 
 range of my studies. As for Arithmetic, I did not master half the com 
 mon rules, and Grammar was to my mind completely unintelligible.
 
 BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 7 
 
 In the end, my teacher declared that it was only wasting time and 
 money to send me to school, and advised my father to put me out to a 
 trade. This was done. I left home and entered upon an apprenticeship 
 shortly after passing my thirteenth year. 
 
 If I found it extremely difficult to comprehend ideas as expressed in 
 ordinary written forms, I was not without thoughts of my own. I had an 
 active mind, and soon after entering upon my apprenticeship the desire for 
 knowledge became strong. As food for this was supplied, even though in 
 a stinted measure, the desire gained strength, and I began a system of 
 self-education that was continued for years afterwards. Of course, the 
 system was a very imperfect one. There was no one to select books for me, 
 nor to direct my mind in its search after knowledge. I was an humble 
 apprentice boy, inclined from habit to shrink from observation, and pre 
 ferring to grope about in the dark for what I was in search off, rather than 
 intrude my wants and wishes upon others. Day after day I worked and 
 thought, and night after night I read and studied, while other boys were 
 seeking pleasure and recreation. Thus, through much discouragement, 
 the years passed by ; and thus time went on, until I attained the age of 
 manhood, when, defective sight compelled me to give up the trade I had 
 been acquiring for over seven years. 
 
 Beyond this trade, my ability to earn a living was small. My efforts 
 at self-education had been guided by no definite aims in life. I had read, 
 studied and thought, more to gratify a desire for knowledge than to gain 
 information with the end of applying it to any particular use. The con 
 sequence was, that on reaching manhood, I entered the world at a great 
 disadvantage. My trade, to learn which I had spent so many years, could 
 not be followed, except at the risk of losing my sight, which had failed for 
 the three preceding years with such rapidity that I was now compelled to 
 use glasses of strong magnifying power. I had but slight knowledge of 
 figures, and was not, therefore, competent, to take the situation of a clerk. 
 At this point in my life, I suffered from great discouragement of mind. 
 Through the kind offices of a friend, a place was procured for me in a 
 counting room, at a very small salary, where but light service was required, 
 and where I found but few opportunities for acquiring a knowledge of 
 business. He*-*! I remained for over three years, almost as much shut out
 
 8 . BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 from contact with the business world as when an apprentice, and with 
 plenty of time on my hands for reading and writing, which I improved. 
 
 The necessity for a larger income caused me to leave this place, and 
 accept of one in which a higher ability was required. In 1833 I went to 
 the West as agent for a Banking Company; but the institution failed and 
 I returned to Baltimore, out of employment. 
 
 During all this time, I was devoting my leisure moments to writing, not 
 that I looked forward to authorship as a trade nothing could have been 
 more foreign to my thoughts ; I continued to write, as I had begun, 
 prompted by an impulse that I felt little inclination to resist. 
 
 At this point in my life, I was induced, in association with a friend who 
 was as fond of writing as myself, to assume the editorial charge of a 
 literary paper. And here began, in earnest, my literary labors, that have 
 since continued with only brief periods of intermission. 
 
 As an author, I have never striven for mere reputation ; have never 
 sought to make a name. Circumstances, over which I had little control, 
 guided my feet, and I walked onward in the path that opened before me, 
 not doubting but that I was in the right way. If other employment had 
 offered; if I had received a good business education, and been able, 
 through that means, to have advanced myself in the world, I would, like 
 thousands of others who had an early fondness for literary pursuits, soon 
 have laid aside my pen and given to trade the best energies of my mind. 
 But Providence guided my feet into other paths than these. They were 
 rough and thorny at times, and I often fainted by the way ; yet renewed 
 strength ever came when I felt the weakest. If my earnest labor has 
 not been so well rewarded in a money-sense as it might have been had I 
 possessed a business education at the time of my entrance upon life, my 
 reward in another sense has been great Though I have not been able to 
 accumulate wealth, I have gained what wealth alone cannot give, a wide 
 spread acknowledgment that in my work I have done good to my fellow 
 men. This acknowledgment comes back upon me from all directions, 
 and I will not deny that it affords me a deep interior satisfaction. Could 
 it be otherwise 1 And with this heart-warming satisfaction, there arises 
 ever in my mind a new impulse, prompting to still more earnest efforts in 
 the cause of humanity.
 
 BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 9 
 
 My choice of temperance themes has not arisen from any experience 
 a my own person of the evils of intemperance, but from having been an 
 eye and ear witness to some of the first results of Washingtonianism, and 
 seeing, in the cause, one worthy the best efforts of my pen. The tem 
 perance cause I recognized as a good cause, and I gave it the benefit of 
 whatever talent I possessed. And I have the pleasant assurance, from 
 very many who have had better opportunities to know than myself, that 
 my labor has not been in vain. Thus much I have ventured to write of 
 myself. Beyond this, let my works speak for me. I can say no more. 
 
 Philadelphia, May, 1850. T. 8. A.
 
 This work will contain over Five Hundred 
 octavo pages, printed on fine white paper, ma 
 nufactured expressly for the Book, with eight 
 tinted engravings and a portrait of the Author, 
 bound in a handsome and substantial manner, 
 and afforded to subscribers at the low price of 
 $2 00 per copy. 
 
 The publisher pledging himself not to put 
 the work into bookstores or sell it less than the 
 regular subscription price. 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY. 
 
 N. B. Subscribers are not obliged to receive 
 the work unless it fully answers the above de 
 scription. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL 13 
 
 THE TWO PICTURES 37 
 
 BRANDT AS A PREVENTIVE 43 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE 58 
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY 74 
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE 92 
 
 SWEARING OFF 109 
 
 THE FAILING HOPE 129 
 
 TAKING TOLL 142 
 
 THOU ART THE MAN 150 
 
 THE TOUCHING REPROOF * 154 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE SONG 160 
 
 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM 165 
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY 172 
 
 THE RUMSELLER'S DREAM 222 
 
 HOW TO CURE A TOPER 246 
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE 252 
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN 282 
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE 297 
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING NIGHT 323 
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 337 
 
 THE IRON WILL , 350 
 
 A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS 364 
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR 369 
 
 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT 383 
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL .m 393 
 
 THE SISTERS 441 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR 461
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Pag 
 
 STARTING FOR LOWELL, . . . .27 
 
 FIRST FRUITS OF THE PLEDGE, ... 68 
 
 THE DUEL, ..... 101 
 
 ANTIMONIAL WINE, .... 138 
 
 DEAD IN THE ALMS-HOUSE, . . . . 176 
 
 CURING A TOPER, .... 238 
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN, .... 280 
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE, . . . 301 

 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 THERE was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. 
 Bacon. His farm, once the best tilled and most productive 
 in the neighbourhood, began to show evidences of neglect 
 and unfruitfulness ; and that he was going behindhand in 
 the world, was too apparent in the fact, that, within two 
 years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and, 
 moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three 
 hundred dollars on a mortgage of his landed property. 
 And yet, Mr. Bacon had not laid aside his habits of indus 
 try. He was up, as of old, with the dawn, and turned not 
 his feet homeward from the field until the sun had taken 
 his parting glance from the distant hill-tops. 
 
 A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Ba 
 con, well liked by all his neighbours, and loved by his own 
 household. His two oldest children died ere reaching the 
 age of manhood ; three remained. Mary Bacon, the eld 
 est of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year, had 
 been from earliest childhood her father's favourite ; and, as 
 she advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more 
 and more into his heart. In his eyes she was very beauti 
 ful ; and his eyes, though partial, did not deceive him very 
 greatly, for Mary's face was fair to look upon. 
 
 We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheer 
 ful-minded man. And so he was ; kind-hearted and cheer 
 ful, even though clouds were beginning to darken above 
 him, and a sigh from the coming tempest was in the air. 
 Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though never 
 moody nor perverse in his tempers. Of the change that 
 was in progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, 
 he did not seem to be painfully conscious. 
 
 Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old 
 Mr. Bacon. A habit indulged through many years, had 
 acquired a dangerous influence over him, and was gradu 
 ally destroying his rational ability to act well in the ordinary 
 
 (13)
 
 14 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 concerns of life. As a young man, Mr. Bacon drank 
 " temperately," and he drank " temperately" in the prime 
 of life ; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink " temper 
 ately," that is, in his own estimation. There were many, 
 however, who had reason to think differently. But Mr. 
 Bacon was no bar-room lounger ; in fact, he rarely, if ever, 
 went to a public house; it was in his own home and 
 among his household treasures, that he placed to his lips 
 the cup of confusion. 
 
 The various temperance reforms had all found warm ad 
 vocates among his friends and neighbours ; but Mr. Bacon 
 stood aloof. He would have nothing to do in these matters. 
 
 " Let them join temperance societies who feel them 
 selves in danger," was his good natured answer to all 
 argument or persuasion addressed to him on the subject. 
 
 He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement. He 
 thought it a good thing ; only, he had in it no personal 
 interest. 
 
 And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking " temperately " 
 until habit, from claiming a moderate indulgence, began to 
 make, so it seemed to his friends, rather unreasonable de 
 mands. Besides this habit of drinking, Mr. Bacon had 
 another habit, that of industry ; and, what was unusual, the 
 former did not abate the latter, though it must be owned 
 that it sadly interfered with its efficiency. He was up, as 
 we have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy 
 at work ; but, somehow or other, his land did not produce 
 as liberally as in former times, and there was slowly creep 
 ing over every thing around him an aspect of decay. 
 Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly, the selling 
 part of his business. In fact, his shrewdness of mind was 
 gone. Alcohol had confused his brain. Gradually he was 
 retrograding ; and, while more than half conscious of the 
 ruin that was in advance'of him, he was not fully enough 
 awake to feel seriously alarmed, nor to' begin anxiously to 
 seek for the cause of impending evil. And so it went on 
 until Mr. Bacon suddenly found himself in the midst of 
 real trouble. The value of his farm, which, after parting 
 with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but 
 twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in conse 
 quence of bad culture, and defective management of his 
 stock had reduced that until it was of little consequence.
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 15 
 
 The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who 
 kept a tavern in the village that lay a mile distant from the 
 little white farm-house of Mr. Bacon. When Dyer com 
 menced his liquor-selling trade, for that was his principal 
 business, he had only a few hundred dollars ; now he was 
 worth thousands, and was about the only man in the neigh 
 bourhood who had money to lend. His loans were always 
 made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable, 
 that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer 
 or store-keeper have a single dollar. But, a drinking man, 
 who was gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to 
 him in vain ; for he was the cunning spider watching for 
 the silly fly. More than one worn-out and run-down farm 
 had already come into his hands, through the foreclosure of 
 mortgages, at a time of business depression, when his help 
 less victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save 
 them from ruin. 
 
 One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood 
 at his rather poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper 
 rode up. There was something in his countenance that 
 sent a creeping sense of fear to the heart of the farmer. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Dyer," said he. 
 
 " Good morning," returned the tavern-keeper, formally. 
 His usual smile was absent from his face. 
 
 " Sharp Jay, this." 
 
 " Yes, rather keen." 
 
 " Won't you walk in and take something ?" 
 
 " No, thank you. H-h-e-em !" 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Mr. Bacon." 
 
 The farmer's eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of 
 Dyer. 
 
 " Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them 
 three hundred dollars," said the tavern-keeper, in a firm 
 voice. 
 
 " Can't pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer," returned 
 Bacon, with a troubled expression ; " no use to think of it." 
 
 " Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his 
 money. I told you when I lent it that I might want it at 
 almost any time." 
 
 Oh ! no, Mr. Dyer. It was understood", distinctly, that
 
 16 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 from four to six months' notice would be given," replied 
 
 Mr. Bacon, positively. 
 
 Preposterous'!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper. Never 
 thought of such a thing. Six months notice, indeed ! 
 
 " That was the agreement," said Mr. Bacon, firmly. 
 
 " Is it in the bond ?" 
 
 " No, it was verbal, between us." 
 
 Dyer shook his head, as he answered, 
 
 " No sir . I never make agreements of that kind ; the 
 money was to be paid on demand, and I have ridden over 
 this morning to make the demand." 
 
 "It is mid winter, Mr. Dyer," was replied in a husky voice. 
 
 Well ?" 
 
 " You know that a small farmer, like me, cannot be in 
 possession, at this season, of the large sum you demand." 
 
 " That is your affair, Mr. Bacon. I want my money now, 
 and must have it." 
 
 There was a tone of menace in the way this was said 
 that Mr. Bacon fully understood. 
 
 " I haven't thirty dollars, much less three hundred, in my 
 possession," said he. 
 
 Borrow it, then." 
 
 " Impossible ! money has not been so scarce for years. 
 Every one is complaining." 
 
 " You'd better make the effort, Mr. Bacon, I shall be 
 sorry to put you to any trouble, but my money will have to 
 be forthcoming." 
 
 " You will not enter up the mortgage ?" said the farmer. 
 
 " It will certainly come to that, unless you can pay it." 
 
 " That is what I call oppression !" returned Mr. Bacon, 
 in momentary indignation, for the utterance of which he 
 was as quickly repentant. 
 
 " Good morning," said Dyer, suddenly turning his horse's 
 head, and riding off at a brisk trot. 
 
 For nearly five minutes, old Mr. Bacon stood with his 
 axe resting on the ground, lost in painful thought. Then 
 he went slowly into the hduse, and sitting down before the 
 fire, let his head sink upon his breast, and there mused on 
 the trouble that was closing around him. But there came 
 no ray of light, piercing the thick darkness that had fallen 
 so suddenly. 
 
 Nothing was then said to his family on the subject, but
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 17 
 
 it was apparent to all that something was wrong, for the 
 lips that gave utterance to so many pleasant words, and 
 parted so often in cheerful smiles, were still silent.' 1 
 
 " Are you not well, to-day ?" asked Mrs. Bacon, as the 
 family gathered around the dinner-table, and she remarked 
 her husband's unusually sober face. 
 
 " Not very well," he replied. 
 
 " What ails you, father ?" said Mary, with tender con 
 cern in her voice, and her eyes were turned upon him with 
 affectionate earnestness. 
 
 " Nothing of much consequence, child," was answered 
 evasively. " I shall be better after dinner." 
 
 And as Mr. Bacon spoke he poured out a larger glass 
 of brandy than usual he always had brandy on the table 
 at dinner time and drank it off*. This soon took away the 
 keen edge of suffering from his feelings, and he was able 
 to affect a measure of cheerfulness. But he did not de 
 ceive the eyes of Mrs. Bacon and Mary. 
 
 " I wonder what ails father !" said Mary, as soon as she 
 was alone with her mother. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Mrs. Bacon, thoughtfully, 
 "he seems troubled about something." 
 
 " I saw that Mr. Dyer, who keeps tavern over in Brook- 
 ville, talking with father at the wood-pile this morning." 
 
 " You did !" Mrs. Bacon spoke with a new manifesta 
 tion of interest. 
 
 " Yes ; and I thought, as I looked at him out of the 
 window, that he appeared to be angry about something." 
 
 Mrs. Bacon did not reply to this remark. Soon after, on 
 meeting her husband, she said to him, 
 
 " What did Mr. Dyer want this morning?" 
 
 " Something that he will not get," replied Mr. Bacon. 
 
 " The money he loaned you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It's impossible to pay it back now, in the dead of 
 winter," said Mrs. Bacon, in a troubled tone of voice, " he 
 ought to know that." 
 
 " And he does know it." 
 
 " What did you tell him ?" 
 
 " That to lift the mortgage now was out of the question." 
 
 " Won't he be troublesome ? You remember how he 
 acted towards poor old Mr. Peabody." 
 
 3
 
 18 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 " I know he's a hard-hearted, selfish man. I don't be 
 lieve that there is a spark of humanity about him. But 
 he'll scarcely go to extremities with me. I don't fear that." 
 
 " Did he'threaten ?" 
 
 " Yes. But I hardly think that he was in earnest." 
 
 How far this last remark of old Mr. Bacon was correct, 
 the following brief conversation will show. It took place 
 between Dyer and a miserable pettyfogging lawyer, in 
 Brookville, named Grant. 
 
 " I've got a mortgage on old Bacon's farm that I wish 
 entered up," said the tavern-keeper, on calling at the 
 lawyer's office. 
 
 " Can't he pay it off?" inquired Grant. 
 
 " Of course not. He's being running down for the last 
 six or seven years, and is now on his last legs." 
 
 " And so you mean to trip him up before he falls of him 
 self." The lawyer spoke in an unfeeling tone and with a 
 sinister smile. 
 
 " If you please to say so," returned Dyer. " I've 
 wanted that farm of his for some time past. When I took 
 the mortgage on it my object was not a simple investment 
 at legal interest ; you know that I can do better with money 
 than six per cent a year." 
 
 "I should think you could," responded the lawyer, 
 with a chuckle. 
 
 " When I loaned Bacon three hundred dollars, of course 
 I never expected to get the sum back again. I understood, 
 perfectly well, that sooner or later the mortgage would 
 have to be entered up." 
 
 " And the farm becomes yours for half its real value." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " Are you not striking to soon ?" suggested the lawyer. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Some friend may loan him the amount." 
 
 Dyer shook his head. 
 
 " It's a tight time in Brookville." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 "And still better for my purpose," said Dyer, in a low, 
 meaning, voice ; "drunkards have few friends; none, in 
 fact, willing to risk their money on them. Put the screws 
 to Bacon, and his farm will drop into my hands like a ripe 
 cherry.''
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 19 
 
 " You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard. You never see 
 nim staggering about, nor lounging in bar-rooms." 
 
 " Do you remember his farm seven years ago ?" 
 
 " Perfectly well." 
 
 " Look at it now." 
 
 " There's a great difference, certainly." 
 
 " Isn't there ! What's the reason of this ?" 
 
 " Intemperance, I suppose." 
 
 " Drunkenness !" said the tavern-keeper. " That is the 
 right word. He don't spend much in bar-rooms, but look 
 over his store bill and you'll find rum a large item." 
 
 " Poor Bacon ! He's a good sort of a man," remarked 
 the lawyer. " I can't help feeling sorry for him. He's his 
 own worst enemy." 
 
 " I want you to push this matter through in the quickest 
 possible time," said Dyer, in a sharp, firm voice. 
 
 " Very well. It shall be done. I know my business." 
 
 " And I know mine," returned the tavern-keeper. 
 
 On the next day, Mr. Bacon was formally notified that 
 proceedings had been instituted for the satisfaction of the 
 mortgage. This was bringing the threatened evil before 
 his eyes in the most direct aspect. In considerable alarm 
 and perturbation, he called over to see Dyer. 
 
 " You cannot mean to press this matter on to the utmost 
 extremity," said he, on meeting the tavern-keeper, the 
 hard aspect of whose features gave him little room for hope. 
 
 " I certainly mean to get my three hundred dollars," was 
 replied. 
 
 " Can you not wait until after next harvest ?" 
 
 " I have already told you that I want my money now," 
 said Dyer, with affected anger. " If you can pay me, 
 well ; if not, I will get my own by aid of the Sheriff." 
 
 " That is a hard saying, Mr. Dyer," returned the farmer, 
 in a subdued voice. 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is a true one, friend Bacon, true as 
 gospel." 
 
 " I haven't the money, nor can I borrow it, Mr. Dyer." 
 
 " Your misfortune, not mine. Though I must say, it is a 
 little strange." 
 
 " What is strange ?" 
 
 " That a man who has lived in this community as long 
 as you have, can't find a friend willing to loan him three
 
 20 THE FACTORYGIRL. 
 
 hundred dollars to save his farm from the Sheriff. There's 
 something wrong." 
 
 Yes, there was something wrong, and poor old Mr. Ba 
 con felt it now more deeply than ever. Another feeble effort 
 at remonstrance was made, when Mr. Dyer coldly referred 
 him to Grant the lawyer, who had now entire control of the 
 business. But he did not go to him. He felt that to do so 
 would be utterly useless. 
 
 Regular proceedings were entered upon for the settlement 
 of the mortgage, and hurried to an issue as speedily as pos 
 sible. It was all in vain that Mr. Bacon sought to borrow 
 three hundred dollars, or to find some person willing to take 
 the mortgage on his farm, and let him continue to pay the 
 interest. It was a season when few had money to spare, 
 and those who could have advanced the sum required, 
 hesitated about investing it where there was little hope of 
 
 fitting the amount back again except by execution and sale, 
 or, Mr. Bacon, in consequence of his intemperance, was 
 steadily running behindhand ; and all his neighbours knew it. 
 
 The effect of this trouble on the mind of Mr. Bacon, was 
 to cause him to drink harder than before. His cheerful 
 temper gave place to a silent moodiness, when in partial 
 states of sobriety, which where now of rare occurrence, 
 and he lost all interest in things around him. A greater 
 part of his time was spent in wandering restlessly about his 
 house or farm, but he put his hand to scarcely any work. 
 
 Deeply distressed were Mrs. Bacon and Mary. Each of 
 them had called, at different times on Mr. Dyer, in the 
 hope of moving him by persuasion to turn from his purpose. 
 
 But, only in one way would he agree to an amicable 
 settlement, and that was, by taking the farm for the mort 
 gage and three hundred dollars cash ; by which means he 
 would come into possession of property worth from twelve 
 to fifteen hundred dollars. This offer he repeated to Mary, 
 who was the last to call upon him in the hope of turning 
 him from his purpose. 
 
 "No! Mr. Dyer," said the young girl firmly, even 
 while tears were in her eyes. My father will not let the 
 place go at a third of its real value." , 
 
 " He over-estimates its worth," replied Dyer, with some 
 impatience, " and he'll find this out when it comes under 
 uw hammer,"
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 21 
 
 " You will not, I am sure you will not, sacrifice my fa 
 ther's little place, the home of his children," said Mary, 
 in an appealing voice. 
 
 " I shall certainly let things take their course," replied 
 the tavern-keeper. " Tell your father, from me, that he 
 has nothing to hope for from any change in my purpose, 
 and that he need make no more efforts to influence me. I 
 will buy the place, as I said, for six hundred dollars, its 
 full value, or I will sell it for my claim." 
 
 And saying this, the man left, abruptly, the room in which 
 his interview with Mary was held, and she, hopeless of 
 making any impression on his feelings, arose and retired 
 from the house, taking, with a sad heart, her way home 
 ward. Never before had Mary, a gentle-hearted, quiet, 
 retiring girl, been forced into such rough contact with the 
 world at any point. Of this act of intercession for her 
 father, Mr. Bacon knew nothing. Had she dropped a 
 a word of her purpose in his hearing, he would have utter 
 ed a positive interdiction. He loved Mary as the apple of 
 his eye, and she loved him with a tender, self-devoted affec 
 tion. To him, she was a choice and beautiful flower, and 
 even though his mind had become, in a certain degree, de 
 graded and debased by intemperance, there was in it a 
 quick instinct of protection when any thing approached his 
 child. 
 
 Slowly and thoughtfully, with her eyes bent upon the 
 ground, did Mary Bacon pursue her way homeward ; and 
 she was not aware of the approach of footsteps behind her, 
 until a man stood by her side and pronounced her name. 
 
 " Mr. Green !" said she, in momentary surprise, pausing 
 as she looked up. 
 
 Mr. Green was a farmer in easy circumstances, whose 
 elegant and highly cultivated place was only a short dis 
 tance from her father's residence. He was, probably, the 
 "richest man in the neighbourhood of Brookville ; though, 
 exceedingly close in all money matters. Mr. Bacon would 
 have called upon him for aid in his extremity, but for two 
 reasons. One was, Mr. Green's known indisposition to 
 lend money, and the other was the fact that he had several 
 times talked to him about his bad drinking habits ; at which 
 liberty he had taken offence, and retorted rather sharply for 
 one of his mild temper.
 
 22 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 The colour mounted quickly to Mary's face, as she paused 
 and lifted her eyes to the countenance of Mr. Green. The 
 fact was, she had been thinking about him, and, just at the 
 moment he cam5 to her side, she had fully made up her 
 mind to call upon him before going home. 
 
 " Well Mary," said he, kindly, and he took her hand. 
 
 Mary's lips quivered, but she could not utter a word. 
 
 Mr. Green moved oft, still holding her hand, and she 
 moved by his side. 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear," said Mr. Green, " that your father 
 is in trouble. I learned it only an hour ago." 
 
 " That is just what I was coming to see you about," 
 replied Mary, with a boldness of speech that surprised even 
 herself. 
 
 " Indeed ! Then you were coming to see me," said 
 Mr. Green, in a voice that was rather encouraging than 
 otherwise. 
 
 " Yes, sir. But father knows nothing of my purpose." 
 
 " Oh ! Well, Mary, what is it you wish to say to me ?" 
 
 The young girl's bosom was heaving violently. Some 
 moments passed ere she felt calm enough to proceed. Then 
 she said 
 
 " Mr. Dyer has a mortgage on father's place for three 
 hundred dollars, and is going to sell it." 
 
 " Mr. Dyer is a hard man, and your father should not 
 have placed himself in his power," remarked Mr. Green. 
 
 " Unhappily, he is in his power." 
 
 " So it seems. Well, what do you wish me to do in the 
 case ?" 
 
 " To lend me three hundred dollars," said Mary, prompt 
 ly. Thus encouraged to speak, she did not hesitate a mo 
 ment. 
 
 " Lend you three hundred dollars !" returned Mr. Green, 
 rather surprised at the directness of her request. " For 
 what use ?" 
 
 ' To pay off this mortgage, of course," replied Mary. 
 
 " But, who will pay me back my money ?" inquired 
 Mr. Green. 
 
 " I will," said Mary, confidently. 
 
 " You ! Pray where do you expect to get so much 
 money from ?" 
 
 " I expect to earn it," was firmly answered.
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 23 
 
 Mr. Green paused, and turning towards Mary, looked 
 earnestly into her young face that was lit up with a beauti 
 ful enthusiasm. 
 
 " Earn it, did you say ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will earn and pay it back to you, if it takes 
 a lifetime to do it in." 
 
 " How will you earn it, Mary ?" 
 
 Mary let her eyes fall to the ground, and stood for a mo 
 ment or two. Then looking up, she said 
 
 " I will go to Lowell." 
 
 " To Lowell ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And work in a factory ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Mr. Green moved on again, but in silence, and Mary 
 walked with an anxious heart by his side. For the distance 
 of several hundred yards they passed along and not a 
 word was spoken. 
 
 " To Lowell ?" at length dropped from the lips of Mr. 
 Green, in a tone half interrogative, half in surprise. Mary 
 did not respond, and the silence continued until they came 
 to a point in the road where their two ways diverged. 
 
 " Have you thought well of this, Mary ?" said Mr. 
 Green, as he paused here, and laid his hand upon a gate 
 that opened into a part of his farm. 
 
 " Why should I think about it, Mr. Green ?" replied 
 Mary. " It is no time to think, but to act. Hundreds of 
 girls go into factories, and it will be to me no hardship, 
 but a pleasure, if thereby I can help my father in this 
 great extremity." 
 
 " Is he aware of your purpose ?" 
 
 "Oh, no sir! no!" 
 
 " He would never listen to such a thing." 
 
 " Not for a moment." 
 
 " Then will you be right in doing what he must disap 
 prove ?" 
 
 " It is done for his sake. Love for him is my prompter, 
 and that will bear me up even against his displeasure." 
 
 " But he may prevent your going, Mary." 
 
 " Not if you will do as I wish." 
 
 " Speak on." 
 
 " Lend me three hundred dollars on my promise to you
 
 24 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 that I will immediately go to Lowell, enter a factory, and 
 remain at work until the whole sura is paid back again 
 from my earnings." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " I will then take the money and pay off the mortgage. 
 This will release father from his debt to Mr. Dyer, and 
 bring me in debt to you." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 " Father is an honest and an honourable man." 
 
 " He is, Mary," said Mr. Green. His voice slightly 
 trembled, for he was touched by the words of the gentle 
 girl. 
 
 " He will not be able to pay you the debt in my stead." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " And, therefore, deeply reluctant as he may be to let 
 me go, he cannot say nay." 
 
 " Walk along with me to my house," said Mr. Green, as 
 he pushed open the gate at which he stood, " I must think 
 about this a little more." 
 
 The result was according to Mary's wishes. Mr. Green 
 was a true friend of Mr. Bacon's, and he saw, or believed 
 that he saw, in his daughter's proposition, the means of his 
 reformation. He, therefore, returned into the village, and 
 going to the office of Grant, satisfied the mortgage on Mr. 
 Bacon's property, and brought all the papers relating there 
 to away and placed them in Mary's hands. 
 
 " Now," said he, on doing this, " I want your written 
 promise to pay me the three hundred dollars in the way 
 proposed. I will draw up the paper, and you must sign it." 
 
 The paper was accordingly drawn up and signed. It 
 stipulated that Mary was to start for Lowell within three 
 weeks, and that she was to have two years for the full pay 
 ment of the debt. 
 
 " My brave girl !" said Mr. Green, as he parted with 
 Mary. " No one will be prouder of you than I, if you ac 
 complish the work to which you are about devoting your 
 self. Happy would I be, had I a daughter with your true 
 heart and noble courage." 
 
 Mary's heart was too full to thank him. But her sweet 
 young face was beaming with gratitude, as she turned away 
 and hurried homeward. 
 
 Mr. Bacon was walking uneasily, backwards and for-
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 25 
 
 wards in the old porch, when Mary entered the little gar 
 den gate. She advanced towards him with a bright face, 
 holding out as she did so, a small package of papers." 
 
 " Good news, father!" she exclaimed. "Good news!" 
 
 " How ? What, child ?" eagerly asked the old man s ms 
 mind becoming suddenly bewildered. 
 
 " The mortgage is paid, and here is the release!" said 
 Mary, still holding out the package of papers. 
 
 "Paid! Paid, Mary! Who paid it?" returned Mr. 
 Bacon, with the air of a man awaking from a dream. 
 
 "I have paid it, father dear!" answered Mary, in a 
 trembling voice ; and she kissed the old man's cheek, and 
 then laid her face down upon his breast. 
 
 " You, Mary ?" Where did you get money ?" 
 
 " I borrowed it," murmured the happy girl. 
 
 " Mary ! Mary ! what does this mean ?" said the old 
 man, pushing back her face and gazing into it earnestly. 
 " Borrowed the money ! Why, who would lend you three 
 hundred dollars ? Say child !" 
 
 " I borrowed it of Mr. Green," replied Mary, and as 
 she said this, she glided past her father and entering into 
 the house, hurried away to her mother. But ere she had 
 time to inform her of what she had done, the father joined 
 them, eager for some further explanations. When, at last, 
 he comprehended the whole matter, he was, for a time like 
 a man stricken down by a heavy blow. 
 
 " Never," said he, in the most solemn manner, " will I 
 consent to this. Mr. Green must take back his money. 
 Let the farm go ! It shall not be saved at this price." 
 
 But he soon comprehended that it was too late to recall 
 the act of his daughter. The money had already passed 
 into the hands of Dyer, and the mortgage been cancelled. 
 Still, he was fixed in his purpose that Mary should not 
 leave home to spend two long years of incessant toil in a 
 factory, and immediately called on Mr. Green in order to 
 make with him some different arrangement for the payment 
 of the loan. But, to his surprise and grief, he found that 
 Mr. Green was unyielding in his determination to keep 
 Mary to her contract. 
 
 "Surely! surely! Mr. Green," urged the distressed fa 
 ther, " you will not hold my dear child to this pledge, 
 made under circumstances of so trying a nature ? You will 
 
 4
 
 26 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 not punish I say punish a gentle girl like her for loving 
 her father too well." 
 
 " If there is any hardship in the case," replied Mr. 
 Green, calmly, "you are at fault, and not me, Mr. Bacon." 
 
 " Why do you say that?" inquired the old man. 
 
 " For the necessity which drove your child to this act of 
 self-sacrifice, you are responsible." 
 
 " Oh sir ! is this a time to wound me with words like 
 these ? Why do you turn a seeming act of kindness into 
 the sharpest cruelty ?" 
 
 " I speak to you but the words of truth and soberness, 
 Mr. Bacon. These, no man should shrink from hearing. 
 Seven years ago, your farm was the most productive in the 
 neighborhood, and you in easy circumstances. What 
 has produced the sad change now visible to all eyes? 
 What has taken from you the ability to manage your affairs 
 as prosperously as before ? What has made it necessary for 
 your child to leave her father's sheltering roof and bury her 
 self for two long years in a factory, in order to save you 
 from total ruin? Go home, Mr. Bacon, and answer these 
 questions to your own heart, and may the pain you now 
 suffer lead you to act more wisely in the future." 
 
 " My daughter shall not go !" exclaimed the old man, 
 passionately. 
 
 " I hold her written pledge to repair to Lowell at the ex 
 piration of three weeks, and to repay the loan I made her 
 in two years. Will you compel her to violate her con 
 tract?" 
 
 " I will execute another mortgage on my farm and pay 
 you back the loan." 
 
 " Act like a wise man," said Mr. Green. {< Let your 
 daughter carry out her noble purpose, and thus relieve you 
 from embarrassment." 
 
 _ " No, no, Mr. Green ! I cannot think of this. Oh, sir ! 
 pity me ! Do not force my child away ! Do not lay so 
 heavy a burden on one so young. Think of her as your 
 own daughter, and do to me as you would yourself wish to 
 be done by." 
 
 But Mr. Green was deaf to all these appeals. He was 
 a man of great firmness of purpose, and not easily turned 
 to the right nor to the left. 
 
 During the next three weeks, Mr. Bacon tried every ex-
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 29 
 
 pedient in his power, short of a total sacrifice of his little 
 property, to raise the money, but in vain. Except for a 
 circumstance new in his life, he would, in his desperation, 
 have accepted Dyer's offer of six hundred dollars for his 
 farm, and thus prevented Mary's departure for Lowell 
 that circumstance was his perfect sobriety. Not since the 
 day when Mr. Green charged upon him the responsibility 
 of his child's banishment from her father's house, had he 
 tasted a drop of strong drink. . His mind was therefore 
 clear, and he was restrained by reason from acts of rash 
 ness, by which his condition would be rendered far worse 
 than it was already. 
 
 Bitter indeed were the sufferings of Mr. Bacon, during 
 the quick passage of the three weeks at the expiration of 
 which time Mary was to leave home, in compliance with 
 her contract and the more bitter, because his mind was 
 unobscured by drink. At last, the moment of separation 
 came. It was a clear cold morning towards the latter end 
 of March, when Mary left, for the last time, her little cham 
 ber, and came down stairs dressed for her journey. Ever, 
 in the presence of her father and mother, during the brief 
 season of preparation, had she maintained a cheerful and 
 confident exterior ; but, in her heart, there was a painful 
 shrinking back from the trial upon which she was about 
 entering. On going by the door of Mary's chamber, a few 
 minutes before she came down, Mrs. Bacon saw her 
 daughter kneeling at her bedside, with her face deeply 
 buried among the clothes. Not till that moment did she fully 
 comprehend the trial through which her child was passing. 
 
 The stage was at the door, and Mary's trunk strapped 
 up in the- boot before she came down. In the porch stood 
 her father and mother, and her younger brother and sister, 
 waiting her appearance. 
 
 " Good bye, father," said the excellent girl, in a cheerful 
 voice, as she reached out her hand. 
 
 Mr. Bacon caught it eagerly, and essayed to speak some 
 tender and encouraging words. But though his lips moved, 
 there was no sound upon the air. 
 
 " God bless you !" was at length uttered in a sobbing 
 voice. A fervent kiss was then pressed upon her lips, and 
 the old man turned away and staggered rather than walked 
 back into the house.
 
 30 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 More calmly the mother parted with her child. It was 
 a great trial for Mrs. Bacon, but she now fully compre 
 hended the great use to flow from Mary's self-devotion, 
 and, therefore, with her last kiss, breathed a word of en 
 couragement. 
 
 " It is for your father. Let that sustain you to the end." 
 
 A few moments more, and the stage rolled away, bear 
 ing with it the very sunlight from the dwelling of Mr. Ba 
 con. Poor old man ! Restlessly did he wander about for 
 days after Mary's departure, unable to apply himself, except 
 for a little while at a time, to any work ; but his inquietude 
 did not drive him back to the cup he had abandoned. No, 
 he saw in it too clearly the cause of his present deep 
 distress, to look upon and feel its allurement. What had 
 banished from her pleasant home that beloved child, and 
 sent her forth among strangers to toil from early morning 
 until the going down of the sun ? Could he love the cause 
 of this great evil ? No ! There was yet enough virtue in 
 his heart to save him. Love for his child was stronger 
 than his depraved love of strong drink. A few more in 
 effectual efforts were made to turn Mr. Green from his reso 
 lution to hold Mary to her contract, and then the humbled 
 father resigned himself to the necessity he could not over 
 come, and with a clearer mind and a newly awakened 
 purpose, applied himself to the culture of his farm, which, 
 in a few months, had a more thrifty appearance than it had 
 presented for years. 
 
 In the mean time, Mary had entered one of the mills at 
 Lowell, and was doing her work there with a brave and 
 cheerful spirit. Some painful trials, to one like her, attend 
 ed her arrival in the city and entrance upon the duties 
 assumed. But daily the trials grew less, and she toiled on 
 in the fulfilment of her contract with Mr. Green, happy 
 under the ever present consciousness that she had saved 
 her father's property, and kept their homestead as the 
 gathering place of the family. At the end of three months, 
 she came back and spent a week. How her young heart 
 bounded with joy at the great change apparent in every 
 thing about the house and farm, but, most of all, at the 
 change in her father. He was not so light of word and 
 smilingly cheerful as in former times, but he was sober, 
 perfectly sober ; and she felt that the kiss with which he
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 31 
 
 welcomed her brief return, was purer than it had ever 
 been. 
 
 On the very day Mary came back, she called over to see 
 Mr. Green, and paid him thirty-seven dollars on account 
 of the loan, for which he gave her a receipt. Then he had 
 many questions to ask about her situation at Lowell, and 
 how she bore her separation from home, to all of which 
 she gave cheerful answers, and, in the end, repeated her 
 thanks for the opportunity he had given her to be of such 
 great service to her father. 
 
 Mr. Green had a son who, during his term at college, 
 exhibited talents of so decided a character that his father, 
 after some deliberation, concluded to place him under the 
 care of an eminent lawyer in Boston. In this position he 
 had now been for two years, and was about applying for 
 admission to the bar. As children, Henry Green and Mary 
 Bacon had been to the same school together, and, as chil 
 dren, they were much attached to each other. Their inter 
 course, as each grew older, was suspended by the absence 
 of Henry at college, and by other circumstances that re 
 moved the two families from intimate contact, and they had 
 ceased to think of each other except when some remem 
 brance of the past brought up their images. 
 
 After paying Mr. Green the amount of money which she 
 had saved from her earnings during the first three months 
 of her factory life, Mary left his house, and was walking 
 along the carriage way leading to the public road, when 
 she saw a young man enter the gate and approach her. 
 
 Although it was three years since she had met Henry 
 Green, she knew him at a glance, but he did not recognize 
 her, although struck with something familiar in her face as 
 he bowed to her in passing. 
 
 " Who can that be ?" said he to himself, as he walked 
 thoughtfully along. " I have seen her before. Can that 
 be Mary Bacon ? If so, how much she has improved !" 
 
 On meeting his father, the young man asked if he was 
 right in his conjecture about the young person he had just 
 passed, and was answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " She was only a slender girl when I saw her last. Now, 
 she is a handsome young woman," said Henry. 
 
 " Yes, Mary has grown up rapidly," replied Mr. Green, 
 evincing no particular interest in the subject of his remark.
 
 32 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 " How is her father doing now ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " Better than he did a short time ago," was replied 
 
 "I'm glad to hear that. Does he drink as much as 
 ever ?" 
 
 " No. He has given up that bad habit." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then he must be doing better." 
 
 "He ran himself down very low," said Mr. Green, 
 " and was about losing every thing, when Mary, like a 
 brave, right-minded girl, stepped forward and saved him." 
 
 " Mary ! How did she do that, father ?" 
 
 " Dyer had a mortgage of three hundred dollars on his 
 farm, and was going to sell him out in mid-winter, when 
 nobody who cared to befriend him -had money to spare. 
 On the very day I heard about his trouble, Mary called on 
 me and asked the loan of a sum sufficient to lift the mort 
 gage. 
 
 " But how could she pay you back that sum ?" asked 
 the young man in surprise. 
 
 "I loaned her the amount she asked," replied Mr. 
 Green, " and she has just paid me the first promised instal 
 ment of thirty-seven dollars." 
 
 " How did she get the money ?" 
 
 " She earned it with her own hands." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " In Lowell." 
 
 " You surprise me," said Henry. " And so, to save her 
 father from ruin, she has devoted her young life to toil in a 
 factory ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and the effect of this self-devotion has been all 
 that I hoped it would be. It has reformed her father. It 
 has saved him in a double sense." 
 
 " Noble girl !" exclaimed the young man, with enthusi 
 asm. 
 
 "Yes, you may well say that, Henry," replied Mr. 
 Green. " In the heart of that humble factory girl is a truly 
 noble and womanly principle, that elevates her, in my esti 
 mation, far above any thing that rank, wealth, or social posi 
 tion alone can possibly give." 
 
 " But father," said Henry, " is it right to subject her to 
 so severe a trial ? It will take a long, long time, for her 
 to earn three hundred dollars. Does not virtue like 
 hers"
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 33 
 
 " I know what you would say," interrupted Mr. Green. 
 Lrue I could cancel the obligation and derive great plea 
 sure from doing so, but it is the conclusion of my better 
 judgment, all things considered, that she be permitted to 
 fill up the entire measure of her contract. The trial will 
 fully prove her, and bring to view the genuine gold of her 
 character. Moreover, it is best for her father that she 
 should seem to be a sufferer through his intemperance. I 
 say seem, for, really, Mary experiences more pleasure than 
 pain from what she is doing. The trial is not so great as 
 it appears. Her reward is with her daily, and it is a rich 
 reward." 
 
 Henry asked no further question, but he felt more than a 
 passing interest in what he had heard. In the course of a 
 week, Mary returned to Lowell and he went back to Bos 
 ton. 
 
 Three months afterwards, Mary again came home to 
 visit her parents, and again called upon Mr. Green to pay 
 over to him what she had been able to save from her earn 
 ings. It so happened that Henry Green was on a visit 
 from Boston, and that he met her, as before, as she was re 
 tiring from the house of his father. This time he spoke to 
 her and renewed their old acquaintance, even going so far 
 as to walk a portion of the way home with her. At the 
 end of another three months, they met again. Brief though 
 this meeting was, it left upon the mind of each the other's 
 image more strongly impressed than it had ever been. In 
 the circle where Henry Green moved in Boston, he met 
 many educated, refined, and elegant young women, some 
 of whom had attracted him strongly ; but, in the humble 
 Mary Bacon, whose station in life was that of a toiling fac 
 tory girl, he saw a moral beauty whose light threw all the" - 
 allurements presented by these completely into shadow. 
 
 Six months went by. Henry Green had been admitted 
 to the bar, and was now a practising attorney in Boston. 
 It was in the pleasant month of June and he had come 
 home to spend a few weeks with his family. One morn 
 ing, a day or two after his return, as he sat conversing with 
 his father, the form of some one darkened the door. 
 
 " Ah Mary !" said the elder Mr. Gieen rising and tak 
 ing the hand of Mary Bacon, which he shook warmly. 
 " My son, Henry," he added, presenting the blushing girl
 
 34 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 to his son, who, in turn, took her hand and expressed the 
 pleasure he felt at meeting her. Knowing the business 
 upon which Mary had called, Henry, not wishing to be 
 present at its transaction, soon retired. As he did so, 
 Mary drew out her purse and took therefrom a small roll 
 of bank bills, saying, as she handed it to Mr. Green, 
 
 " I have come to make you another payment." 
 
 With a grave, business-like air, Mr. Green took the money 
 and, after counting it over, went to his secretary and wrote 
 out a receipt. 
 
 " Let me see," said he, thoughtfully, as he came back 
 with the receipt in his hand. " How much does this 
 make? One, two, three, four, five quarterly payments. 
 One hundred and eighty-seven dollars and a half. You'll 
 soon be through, Mary. There is nothing like patience, 
 perseverance, and industry. How is your father this morn 
 ing?" 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 " I think his health has improved of late." 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 "And so has every thing around him. I was looking at 
 his farm a few days ago, and never saw crops in a finer 
 condition. And how is your health, Mary." 
 
 " Pretty good," was replied, though not with much 
 heartiness of manner. 
 
 Mr. Green now observed her more closely, and saw that 
 her cheeks were thinner and paler than at her last visit. 
 He did not remark on it, however, and, after a few words 
 more of conversation, Mary arose and withdrew. 
 
 It was, perhaps, an hour afterwards, that Henry said to 
 
 !_ 1_ * * ' * 
 
 his father, 
 
 " Mary Bacon doesn't look as well as when I last saw 
 her." 
 
 " So it struck me," returned Mr. Green. 
 
 " I'm afraid she has taken upon her more than she has 
 the strength to accomplish. She is certainly paler and thin 
 ner than she was, and is far from looking as cheerful and 
 happy as when I saw her six months ago." 
 
 Mr. Green did not reply to this, but his countenance 
 assumed a thoughtful expression. 
 
 " Mary is a good daughter," he at length said, as if 
 speaking to himself.
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL. 35 
 
 " There is not one in a thousand like her," replied 
 Henry, with a warmth of manner that caused Mr. Green to 
 lift his eyes to his son's face. 
 
 " I fully agree with you in that," he answered. 
 
 " Then, father," said Henry, "why hold her any longer 
 to her contract, thus far so honorably fulfilled. The trial 
 has proved her. You see the pure gold of her character." 
 
 " I have long seen it," returned Mr. Green. 
 
 " Her father is thoroughly reformed." 
 
 " So I have reason to believe." 
 
 " Then act from your own heart's generous impulses, 
 father, and forgive the balance of the debt." 
 
 " Are you certain that she will accept what you ask me 
 to give ? Will her own sense of justice permit her to stop 
 until the whole claim is satisfied ?" asked Mr. Green. 
 
 "I cannot answer for that father," returned Henry. 
 u But, let me beg of you to at least make the generous 
 offer of a release." 
 
 Mr. Green went to his secretary, and, taking a small 
 piece of paper from a drawer, held it up, and said 
 
 " This, Henry, is her acknowledgment of the debt to 
 me. If I write upon it ' satisfied,' will you take it to her 
 and say, that I hold the obligation no farther." 
 
 " Gladly !" was the instant reply of Henry. " You 
 could not ask me to do a thing from which I would derive 
 greater pleasure." 
 
 Mr. Green took up his pen and wrote across the face of 
 the paper, in large letters, " satisfied," and then, handing 
 it to his son, said 
 
 " Take it to her, Henry, and say to her, that if I had 
 given way to my feelings, I would have done this a year 
 ago. And now, let me speak a word for your ear. Never 
 again, in this life, may a young woman cross your path, 
 whose character is so deeply grounded in virtue, who is so 
 pure, so unselfish, so devoted in her love, so strong in her 
 good purposes. Her position is humble, but, in a life-com 
 panion, w r e want personal excellences, not extraneous so 
 cial adjuncts. You have my full consent to win, if you 
 can, this sweet flower, blooming by the way-side. A proud 
 day will it be for me, when I can call her my daughter. I 
 have long loved her as such." 
 
 More welcome words than these Mr. Green could not 
 5
 
 36 THE FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 have spoken to his son. They were like a response to his 
 own feelings. He did not, however, make any answer, 
 but took the contract in silence and quickly left the room. 
 
 The reader can easily anticipate what followed. Mary 
 did not go back to Lowell. A year afterwards she was 
 introduced to a select circle of friends in Boston as the wife 
 of Henry Green, and she is now the warmly esteemed 
 friend and companion of some of the most intelligent, re 
 fined, right-thinking, and right-feeling people in that city. 
 Her husband has seen no reason to repent of his choice. 
 
 As for old Mr. Bacon, his farm has continued to improve 
 in appearance and value ever since his daughter paid off 
 the mortgage ; and as he, once for all, banished liquor 
 from his house, he is in no danger of having his little pro 
 perty burdened with a new encumbrance. His cheerfulness 
 has returned, and he bears as of old, the reputation of 
 being the best tempered, best hearted man in the neigh- 
 oorhood
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, the oldest but 
 six years of age, came in from school one evening, later 
 than usual by half an hour. Both their eyes were red with 
 weeping, and their cheeks wet with tears. Their father, 
 Mr. Warren, who had come home from his business earlier 
 than usual, had been waiting some time for their return, 
 and wondering why they stayed so late. They were his 
 only children, and he loved them most tenderly. They 
 had, a few weeks before, been entered at a school kept by 
 a lady in the neighborhood not so much for what they 
 would learn, as to give occupation to their active minds. 
 
 " Why, Anna! Willy !" exclaimed Mr. Warren, as the 
 children came in, " what's the matter ? Why have yo 
 stayed so late ?" 
 
 Anna lifted her tearful eyes to her father's face, and her 
 lip curled and quivered. But she could not answer his 
 question. 
 
 Mr. Warren took the grieving child in his arms, and as 
 he drew her to his bosom, said to Willy, who was the 
 oldest 
 
 " What has made you so late, dear?" 
 
 " Miss Roberts kept us in," sobbed Willy. 
 
 "Kept you in!" returned Mr. Warren, in surprise. 
 " How came that ?" 
 
 " Because we laughed," answered the child, still sob 
 bing and weeping. 
 
 " What made you laugh ?" 
 
 " One of the boys made funny faces." 
 
 " And did you laugh too, dear ?" asked the father of 
 Anna. 
 
 " Yes, papa. But I couldn't help it. And Miss Roberts 
 scolded so, and said she was going to whip us." 
 
 " And was that all you did ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, papa," said Willy.
 
 38 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 " I'll see Miss Roberts about it," fell angrily from the 
 lips of Mr. Warren. " It's the last time you appear in her 
 school. A cruel-minded woman !" 
 
 And then the father soothed his grieving little ones with 
 affectionate words and caresses. 
 
 " Dear little angels !" said Mr. Warren to his wife, shortly 
 afterwards, " that any one could have the heart to punish 
 them for a sudden outburst of joyous feelings ! And Anna 
 in particular, a mere babe as she is, I can't get over it. 
 To think of her being kept in for a long half hour, under 
 punishment, after all the other children had gone home. It 
 was cruel. Miss Roberts shall hear from me on the sub 
 ject." 
 
 " I don't know, dear, that I would say any thing about 
 it," remarked the mother, who was less excited about the 
 matter, "I don't think she meant to be severe. She, 
 doubtless, forgot that they were so very young." 
 
 " She'd no business to forget it. I've no idea of my 
 children being used after this fashion. The boy that made 
 them laugh should have been kept in, if any punishment 
 had to be inflicted. But it's the way with cruel-minded 
 people. The weakest are always chosen as objects of 
 their dislike." 
 
 " I am sure you take this little matter too much to heart," 
 urged the mother. " Miss Roberts must have order in her 
 school, and even the youngest must conform to this order. 
 I do not think the punishment so severe. She had to do 
 something to make them remember their fault, and restrain 
 their feelings in future ; and she could hardly have done 
 less. It is not too young for them to learn obedience in 
 any position where they are introduced." 
 
 But the over fond and tender father could see no reason 
 for the punishment his little ones had received ; and would 
 not consent to let them go again to the school of Miss Ro 
 berts. To him they were earth's most precious things. 
 They were tender flowers ; and he was troubled if ever the 
 winds blew roughly upon them. 
 
 Seven years have passed. Let us visit the home of Mr. 
 Warren and look at him among his children. No ; we will 
 not enter this pleasant house he moved away long ago. ' 
 Can this be the home of Mr. Warren ! Yes. Small, poor, 
 and comfortless as it is ! Ah ! there have been sad changes.
 
 TWO PICTURES. 39 
 
 Let us enter. Can that be Warren ? That wretched look 
 ing creature with swollen, disfigured face and soiled 
 garments who sits, half stupid, near the window? A 
 little flaxen-haired child is playing on the floor. It is not 
 Anna. No ; seven years have changed her from the fairy- 
 like little creature she was when her father became outraged 
 at her punishment in Miss Roberts' school ! Poor Anna ! 
 That was light as the thistle down to what she has since 
 received from the hands of her father. 
 
 The child on the floor is beautiful, even in her tattered 
 clothes. She has been playing for some time. Now her 
 father calls to her in a rough, grumbling voice. 
 
 "Kate! You, Kate, I say!" 
 
 Little Kate, not five years old, leaves her play and goes 
 up to where her parent is sitting. 
 
 " Go and get me a drink of water," said he in a harsh 
 tone of authority." 
 
 Kate takes a tin cup from a table and goes to the hydrant 
 in the yard. So pleased is she in seeing the water run, 
 that she forgets her errand. Three or four times she fills 
 the cup, and then pours forth its contents, dipping her tiny 
 feet in the stream that is made. In the midst of her sport, 
 she hears an angry call, and remembering the errand upon 
 which she has been sent, hurriedly fills her cup again and 
 bears it to her father. She is frightened as she comes in 
 and sees his face ; this confuses her ; her foot catches in 
 something as she approaches, and she falls over, spilling 
 the cup of water on his clothes. Angrily he catches her 
 up, and, cruel in his passion, strikes her three or four heavy 
 blows. 
 
 " Now take that cup and get me some water!" he cries, 
 in a loud voice, " and if you are not here with it in a 
 minute, I'll beat the life half out of you ! I'll teach you to 
 mind when your spoken to, I will ! There ! Off with 
 you !" 
 
 Little Kate, smarting from pain, and trembling with fear, 
 lifts the cup and hurries away to perform her errand. 
 She drops it twice from her unsteady hands ere she is able 
 to convey it, filled with water, to her parent, who takes it 
 with such a threatening look from his eyes, that the child 
 shrinks away from him, and goes from the room in fear. 
 
 An hour passes, and the light of day begins to fade.
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 4U 
 
 Evening comes slowly on, and at length the darkness 
 
 in ^< You're late, Anna," says the mother, kindly. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. We had to stay later for our money 
 Mr. Davis was away from the store, and I TO afraid I 
 would have to come home without it. Here it is. 
 
 Mrs. Warren took the money. . 
 
 "Only a dollar!" There was disappointment m her 
 tones as she said this. . 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, that is all," replied Anna, in a troubled 
 voice " I spoiled some work, and Mr. Davis said I should 
 pay for it, and so he took half a dollar from my wages." 
 
 " Spoiled your work !" spoke up the father, who had 
 been listening. " That's more of your abominable care 
 lessness !" 
 
 "Indeed, father, I couldn't help it," said Anna, " one ot 
 
 the girls " 
 
 " Hush up, will you ! I want none of your lying ex 
 cuses. I know you ! It was done on purpose, I have not 
 the least doubt." 
 
 Anna caught her breath, like one suddenly deprived of 
 air. Tears rushed to her eyes and commenced falling 
 over her cheeks, while her bosom rose and fell convul 
 sively. 
 
 "Come, now! None of that!" said the cruel father 
 sternly. " Stop your crying instantly, or I will give you 
 something to cry for! A pretty state of things, indeed, 
 when every word must be answered by a fit of crying !" 
 
 The poor child choked down her feelings as best she 
 could, turning as she did so from her father, that he might 
 not see the still remaining traces of her grief which it was 
 impossible at once to hide. 
 
 Not a single dollar had the idle, drunken father earned 
 during the week, that he had not expended in self-indul 
 gence ; and yet, in his brutality, he could roughly chide 
 this little girl, yet too young for the taskmaster, because she 
 had lost half a dollar of her week's earnings through an 
 accident, the very nature of which he would not hear ex-
 
 TWO PICTURES. 41 
 
 plained. So grieved was the poor child at this unkindness, 
 that when supper was on the table she shrunk away from 
 the room. 
 
 " Come, Anna, to your supper," called the mother. 
 
 " I don't wish any thing to eat," replied the child, in a 
 faint voice. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; come and get something." 
 
 " Let her alone!" growls the father. "I never humor 
 sulky children. She doesn't deserve any supper." 
 
 The mother sighs. While the husband eats greedily, 
 consuming, himself, more than half that is on the table, she 
 takes but a few mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty. 
 
 After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has 
 already been bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes 
 home. He has a tale of suffering to tell. For some 
 fault his master has beaten him until the large purple welts 
 lie in meshes across his back from his shoulders to his hips. 
 
 "How comes all this?" asks Mr. Warren. There is 
 not the smallest sign of sympathy in his voice. 
 
 Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly. He was some 
 thing to blame, but his fault needed not the correction of 
 stripes even lightly applied. 
 
 " Served you right !" said the father, when the story 
 was ended. " No business to have acted so. Do as you 
 are told, and mind your work, and you'll escape flogging. 
 Otherwise, I don't care how often you get it. You've been 
 spoiled at home, and it'll do you good to toe the mark. 
 Did your master know you were coming home to-night ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a 
 choking voice. 
 
 " Then what did you come for ? To get pitied ? Do 
 right and you'll need no pity." 
 
 " Oh, James, don't speak so to the child !" said Mrs. 
 Warren, unable to keep silence. 
 
 This was answered by an angry look. 
 " You must go back to your master, boy," said the fa 
 ther, after a pause. " When you wish to come home, ask 
 his consent." 
 
 " He doesn't object to my coming home," said Willy, his 
 voice still quivering. 
 
 " Go back, I tell you ! Take your hat, there, and go 
 back. Don' 1 * come here any more with your tales !"
 
 42 T W P I C T U R E S. 
 
 The boy glanced towards his mother, and read pity and 
 sympathy in her countenance, but she did not countermand 
 the order ; for she knew that if she did so, a scene of vio 
 lence would follow. 
 
 " Ask to come home in the morning," said she to her 
 boy, as she held his hand tightly in hers at the door. He 
 gave her a look of tender thankfulness, and then went forth 
 into the darkness, feeling so sad and wretched that he could 
 not repress his tears. 
 
 Seven years. And was only this time required to effect 
 such a change ! Ah ! rum is a demon ! How quickly does 
 it transform the tender husband and parent into a cruel 
 beast ! Look upon these two pictures, ye who tarry long 
 at the wine ! Look at them, but do not say they are over 
 drawn ! They have in them only the sober hues and sub 
 dued colors of truth.
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 THE cholera had made its appearance in New York, 
 and many deaths were occurring daily. Among those 
 who weakly permitted themselves to feel an alarm amount 
 ing almost to terror, was a Mr. Hobart, who, from the 
 moment the disease manifested itself, became infested with 
 the idea that he would be one of its victims. 
 
 u Doctor," said he to his family physician, meeting him 
 one day in the street, " is there nothing which a man can 
 take that will act as a preventive to cholera ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what I do," replied the doctor. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 " I take a glass of good brandy twice a day. One in 
 the morning and the other after dinner." 
 
 " Indeed! And do you think brandy useful in preventing 
 the disease ?" 
 
 " I think it a protection," said the doctor. " It keeps 
 the system slightly stimulated; and is, besides, a gooa 
 astringent." 
 
 "A very simple agent," remarked Mr. Hobart. 
 
 " Yes, the most simple that we can adopt. And what 
 is better, the use of it leaves no after bad consequences, as 
 is too often the case with medicines, which act upon the 
 system as poisons." 
 
 " Sometimes very bad consequences arise from the use 
 of brandy," remarked Mr. Hobart. " I have seen them in 
 my time." 
 
 " Drunkenness, you mean." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " People who are likely to make beasts of themselves 
 had better let it alone," said the doctor, contemptuously. 
 " If they should take the cholera and die, it will be no 
 great loss to the world." 
 
 " And you really think a little good brandy, taken daily, 
 fortifies the system against the cholera ?" 
 
 6 (43)
 
 44 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 Seriously I do," replied the doctor. " I have adopted 
 this course from the first, and have not been troubled with 
 a symptom of the disease." 
 
 " I feel very nervous on the subject. From the first I 
 have been impressed with the idea that I would get the 
 disease and die." 
 
 " That is a weakness, Mr. Hobart." 
 
 " I know it is, still I cannot help it. And you would 
 advise me to take a little good brandy?" 
 
 " Yes, every day." 
 1 1 am a Son of Temperance." 
 
 " No matter ; you can take it as medicine under my 
 prescription. I know a dozen Sons of Temperance who 
 have used brandy every day since the disease appeared in 
 New York. It will be no violation of your contract. Life 
 is of too much value to be put in jeopardy on a mere 
 idea." 
 
 "I agree with you there. I'd drink any thing if I 
 thought it would give me an immunity against this dread 
 ful disease." 
 
 " You'll be safer with the brandy than without it." 
 
 " Very well. If you think so, I will use it." 
 
 On parting with the doctor, Mr. Hobart went to a liquor 
 store and ordered half a gallon of brandy sent home. He 
 did not feel altogether right in doing so, for it must be 
 understood, that, in years gone by, Mr. Hobart had fallen 
 into the evil habit of intemperance, which clung to him 
 until he run through a handsome estate and beggared his 
 family. In this low condition he was found by the Sons 
 of Temperance, who induced him to abandon a course 
 whose end was death and destruction, and to come into 
 their Order. From that time all was changed. Sobriety 
 and industry were returned to him in many of the good 
 things of this world which he had lost, and he was still in 
 the upward movement at the time when the fatal pestilence 
 appeared. 
 
 On going home at dinner time, Hobart s wife said to 
 him, with a serious face 
 
 " A demijohn, with some kind of liquor in it, was sent 
 here to-day." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he replied, " it is brandy that Doctor L 
 
 ordered me to take as a cholera preventive."
 
 BKANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 45 
 
 "Brandy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hobart, with an expression 
 of painful surprise in her voice and on her countenance, 
 that rather annoyed her husband. 
 
 " Yes. He says that he takes it every day as a preven 
 tive, and directed me to do the same." 
 
 " I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Indeed I wouldn't," 
 said Mrs. Hobart, earnestly. 
 
 " Why wouldn't you ?" 
 
 " You will violate your contract with the Sons of Tem 
 perance." 
 
 " Not at all. Brandy may be used as a medicine under 
 the prescription of a physician. I wouldn't have thought 
 of touching it had not Doctor L ordered me to do so." 
 
 " You are not sick, Edward." 
 
 " But there is death in the very air I breathe. At any 
 moment I am liable to be struck down by an arrow sent 
 from an unseen bow, unless a shield be interposed. Such 
 a shield has been placed in my hands. Shall I not 
 use it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hobart knew her husband well enough to be satis 
 fied that remonstrance and argument would be of no avail, 
 now that his mind was m de up to use the brandy ; and 
 yet so distressed did she feel, that she couldn't help saying, 
 with tears in her eyes 
 
 " Eaward, let me beg of you not to touch it." 
 
 " Would you rather see me in my coffin?" replied Mr. 
 Hobart, with some bitterness. " Death may seem a light 
 thing to you, but it is not so to me." 
 
 " You are not sick," still urged the wife. 
 
 " But I am liable, as I said just now, to take the disease 
 every moment." 
 
 " You will be more liable, with your system stimulated 
 and disturbed by brandy. Let well enough alone. Be 
 thankful for the health you have, and do not invite 
 disease." 
 
 "The doctor ought to know. He understands the mat 
 ter better than you or I. He recommends brandy as a pre 
 ventive. He takes it himself. " 
 
 " Because he likes it, no doubt." 
 
 " It is silly for you to talk in that way," replied the 
 husband, with much impatience. " He isn't rendered
 
 46 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 more liable to the disease by taking a little pure brandy, 
 for he says that it keeps him perfectly well." 
 
 " A glass of brandy every day may have been his usual 
 custom," urged Mrs. Hobart. " In that case, in its con 
 tinuance, no change was produced. But your system has 
 been untouched by the fiery liquid for nearly five years, 
 and its sudden introduction must create disturbance. It is 
 reasonable." 
 
 " The doctor ought to know best," was replied to this. 
 "He has prescribed it, and I must take it. Life is too 
 serious a matter to be trifled with. 'An ounce of pre 
 ventive is worth a pound of cure,' you know." 
 
 " I am in equal danger with yourself," said Mrs. Ho 
 bart ; " and so are the children." 
 
 " Undoubtedly. And I wish you all to use a little 
 brandy." 
 
 " Not a drop of the poison shall pass either my lips 
 or those of the children," replied Mrs. Hobart, with em 
 phasis. 
 
 " As you please," said the husband, coldly, and turned 
 away. 
 
 " Edward !" Mrs. Hobart laid her hand upon his arm. 
 "Edward ! Let me beg of you not to follow this advice." 
 
 " Why will you act so foolishly ? Has not the doctor 
 ordered the brandy ? I look to him as the earthly agent 
 for the preservation of my health and the saving of my 
 life. If I do not regard his advice, in what am I to 
 trust ?" 
 
 " Remember the past, Edward," said the wife, solemnly. 
 
 " I do remember it. But I fear no danger." 
 
 Mrs. Hobart turned away sadly, and went up to her 
 chamber to give vent to her feelings alone in tears. 
 
 Firm to his purpose of using the preventive recommended 
 by the doctor, Mr. Hobart, after dinner, took a draught of 
 brandy and water. Nearly five years, as his wife re 
 marked, had elapsed since a drop of the burning fluid had 
 passed his lips. The taste was not particularly agreeable. 
 Indeed, his stomach rather revolted as the flavor reached 
 his palate. 
 
 " It's vile stuff* at best," he remarked to himself, making 
 a wry face. " Fit only for medicine. Not much danger
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 47 
 
 of my ever loving it again. I wish Anna was not so 
 foolish. A flattering opinion she has of her husband !" 
 
 The sober countenance of his wife troubled Mr. Hobart, 
 as he left home for his place of business earlier by half an 
 hour than usual. Neither in mind nor body were his 
 sensations as pleasant as on the day before. The brandy 
 did something more than produce an agreeable warmth in 
 his stomach. A burning sensation soon followed its intro 
 duction, accompanied by a feeling of uneasiness that he 
 did not like. In the course of half an hour, this unnatural 
 heat was felt in every part of his body, but more particu 
 larly about his head and face ; and it was accompanied by 
 a certain confusion of mind that prevented his usual close 
 application to business during the afternoon. 
 
 Towards evening, these disagreeable consequences of the 
 glass of cholera-preventive he had taken in a great mea 
 sure subsided ; but there followed a dryness of the palate, 
 and a desire for some drink more pleasant to the taste than 
 water. In his store was a large pitcher of ice- water ; but, 
 though thirsty, he felt no inclination to taste the pure 
 beverage ; but, instead, went out and obtained a glass of 
 soda water. This only made the matter worse. The 
 half gill of syrup with which the water was sweetened, 
 created, in a little while, a more uneasy feeling. Still, 
 there was no inclination for the water that stood just at 
 hand, and which he had daily found so refreshing during 
 the hot weather. In fact, when he thought of it, it was 
 with a sense of repulsion. 
 
 In this state, the idea of a cool glass of brandy punch, or 
 a mint julep, came up in his mind, and he felt the draught, 
 in imagination, at his lips. 
 
 "A little brandy twice a day ; so the doctor said." This 
 was uttered half aloud. 
 
 Just at the moment a slight pain crossed his stomach. It 
 was the first sensation of the kind he had experienced since 
 the epidemic he so much dreaded had appeared in the 
 city ; and it caused a slight shudder to go through his 
 frame, for he was nervous in his fear of cholera. 
 
 " A little mint with the brandy would make it better 
 still. I don't like this feeling. I'll try a glass of brandy 
 and mint." Thus spoke Mr. Hobart to himself. 
 
 Putting on his hat, he went forth for the purpose of
 
 48 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 getting some brandy and mint. As he stepped into the 
 street the pain was felt again, and more distinctly. The 
 effect was to cause a slight perspiration to manifest itself on 
 the face and forehead of Mr. Hobart, and to make, in his 
 mind, the necessity for the brandy and mint more impera 
 tive. He did not just like to be seen going boldly in at 
 the door of a refectory or drinking-house in a public place, 
 for he was a Son of Temperance, and any one who knew 
 this and happened to see him going in, could not, at the 
 same time, know that he was acting under his physician's 
 advice. So he went off several blocks from the neighbor 
 hood in which his store was located, and after winding his 
 way along a narrow, unfrequented street, came to the back 
 entrance of a tavern, where he went in, as he desired, 
 unobserved. 
 
 Years before, Hobart had often stood at the bar where 
 he now found himself. Old, familiar objects and associa 
 tions brought back old feelings, and he was affected by an 
 inward glow of pleasure. 
 
 " What ! you here ?" said a man who stood at the bar, 
 with a glass in his hand. He was also a member of the 
 Order. 
 
 " And you here !" replied Mr. Hobart. 
 
 "It isn't for the love of it, I can assure you," remarked 
 the man, as he looked meaningly at his glass. " These are 
 not ordinary times." 
 
 " You are right there," said Hobart. 
 
 "A little brandy sustains and fortifies the system. That 
 all admit." 
 
 " My physician has ordered it for me. He takes a glass 
 or two every day himself, and tells me that, so far, he has 
 not been troubled with the first symptom." 
 
 u Indeed. That is testimony to the point." 
 
 " So I think." 
 
 " Who is your physician ?" 
 
 Dr. L ." 
 
 " He stands high. I would at any time trust my life in 
 his hands." 
 
 " I am willing to do so." Then turning to the bar 
 keeper, Mr. Hobart said I'll take a glass of brandy and 
 water, and you may add some mint." 
 
 "Perhaps you'll have a mint julep?" suggested the bar-
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 49 
 
 keeper, winking aside to a man who stood near, listening to 
 what passed between the two members of the Order. 
 
 " Yes I don't care yes. Make it a julep," returned 
 Hobart. " It's the brandy and mint I want. I've had a 
 disagreeable sensation," he added, speaking to the friend 
 he had met, and drawing his hand across his stomach as he 
 spoke, " that I don't altogether like. Here it is again !" 
 
 " A little brandy will help it." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 When the mint julep was ready, Hobart took , it in his 
 hand and retired to a table in the corner of the room, and 
 the man he had met went with him. 
 
 "Ain't you afraid to tamper with liquor?" asked this 
 person, a little seriously, as he observed the relish with 
 which Hobart sipped the brandy. Some thoughts had 
 occurred to himself that were not very pleasant. 
 
 " Oh, no. Not in the least," replied Mr. Hobart. " I 
 only take it as a medicine, under my physician's order ; 
 and I can assure you that the taste is quite as disagreeable 
 as rhubarb would be. I believe the old fondness has alto 
 gether died out." 
 
 " I'm afraid it never dies out," said the man, whose 
 eyes told him plainly enough, that it had not died out in 
 the case of the individual before him, notwithstanding his 
 averment on the subject. 
 
 " I feel much better now," said Mr. Hobart, after he 
 had nearly exhausted his glass. " I had such a cold sen 
 sation in my stomach, accompanied by a very disagreeable 
 pain. But both are now gone. This brandy and mint 
 
 have acted like a charm. Dr. L understands the 
 
 matter clearly. It is fortunate that I saw him this morning. 
 I would not have dared to touch brandy, unless under 
 medical advice ; and, but for the timely use of it, I might 
 have been dangerously ill with this fatal epidemic." 
 
 After sitting a little while longer, the two men retired 
 through the back entrance to escape observation. 
 
 "How quickly these temperance men seize hold of any 
 excuse to get a glass of brandy," said the bar-keeper to a 
 customer, as soon as Hobart had retired, laughing in a half 
 sneer as he spoke. " They come creeping in through our 
 back way, and all of them have a pain! Ha! ha !" 
 
 " I've taken a glass of brandy and water, every day for
 
 50 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 the last five years," replied the man to whom this was ad 
 dressed, " and I continue it now. But I can tell you what, 
 if I'd been an abstainer, you wouldn't catch me pouring it 
 into my stomach now. Not I! All who do so are more 
 liable to the disease." 
 
 " So I think," said the bar-tender. " But every one to 
 his liking. It puts money in our till. We've done a bet 
 ter business since the cholera broke out, than we've done 
 these three years. If it were to continue for a twelve 
 month we would make a fortune." 
 
 This was concluded with a coarse laugh, and then he 
 went to attend to a new customer for drink. 
 
 For all Mr. Hobart had expressed himself so warmly in 
 favor of brandy, and had avowed his freedom from the old 
 appetite, he did not feel altogether right about the matter. 
 There was a certain pressure upon his feelings that he could 
 not well throw off. When he went home in the evening, 
 he perceived a shadow on the brow of his wife ; and the 
 expression of her eyes, when she looked at him, annoyed 
 and troubled him. 
 
 After supper, the uneasiness he had felt during the after 
 noon, returned, and worried his mind considerably. The 
 fact was, the brandy had already disturbed the well balanced 
 action of the lower viscera. The mucous membrane of the 
 whole alementary canal had been stimulated beyond health, 
 and its secretions were increased and slightly vitiated. 
 This was the cause of the uneasiness he felt, and the slight 
 pains which had alarmed him. By ten o'clock his feelings 
 had become so disagreeable, that he felt constrained to 
 meet them with another " mouthful," of brandy. Thus, 
 in less than ten hours, Mr. Hobart had wronged his stomach 
 by pouring into it three glasses of brandy ; entirely disturb 
 ing its healthy action. 
 
 The morning found Mr. Hobart far from feeling well. 
 His skin was dry and feverish and his mouth parched. 
 There was an uneasy sensation of pain in his head. Im 
 mediately upon rising he took a strong glass of brandy. 
 That, to use his own words, " brought him up," and made 
 him feel "a hundred per cent better." During the fore 
 noon, however, a slight diarrhoea manifested itself. A 
 thrill of alarm was the consequence. 
 
 "I must check this!" said he, anxiously. And, in
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 51 
 
 order to do so, another and stronger glass of brandy was 
 taken. 
 
 In the afternoon, the diarrhoea appeared again. It was 
 still slight, and unaccompanied by pain. But, it was a 
 symptom not to be disregarded. So brandy was applied 
 as before. In the evening, it showed itself again. 
 
 " I wish you would give me a little of that brandy," 
 said he to his wife. "I'm afraid of this, it must be 
 stopped." 
 
 "Hadn't you better see the doctor?" 
 
 " I don't think it necessary. The brandy will answer 
 every purpose." 
 
 "I have no faith in brandy," said Mrs. Hobart. " Poor 
 woman ! she had cause for her want of faith ! 
 
 " I have then," replied her husband. " It's the doctor's 
 recommendation. And he ought to know." 
 
 " You were perfectly well before you commenced acting 
 on his advice." 
 
 " I was well, apparently. But, it is plain that the seeds 
 of disease were in me. There is no telling how much 
 worse I would have been." 
 
 " Nor how much better. For my part I charge it all on 
 the brandy." 
 
 " That's a silly prejudice," said Mr. Hobart, with a 
 good deal of impatience. " Every one knows that brandy 
 is a remedy in diseases of this kind ; not a producing 
 cause." 
 
 Mrs. Hobart was silent. But she did not get the brandy. 
 That was more than she could do. So her husband got it 
 himself. But, in order to make the medicinal purpose 
 more apparent, he poured the liquor into a deep plate, 
 added some sugar, and set it on fire. 
 
 " You will not object to burnt brandy at least," said he. 
 " That you know to be good." 
 
 Mrs. Hobart did not reply. She felt that it would be 
 useless. Only a disturbance of harmony could arise, and 
 that would produce greater unhappiness. The brandy, 
 after having parted with its more volatile qualities, was 
 introduced into Mr. Hobart's stomach, and fretted that deli 
 cate organ for more than an hour. 
 
 " I thought the burnt brandy would be effective," said 
 Mr. Hobart on the next morning. " And it has proved 
 
 7
 
 52 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 so." In order not to lose this good effect, he fortified him 
 self before going out with some of the same article, un- 
 burnt. But, alas ! By ten o'clock the diarrhoea showed 
 itself again, and in a more decided form. 
 
 Oh dear !" said he in increased alarm. " This won't do. 
 I must see the doctor." And off he started for Doctor 
 
 L 's office. But, on the way he could not resist the 
 
 temptation to stop at a tavern for another glass of brandy, 
 notwithstanding he began to entertain a suspicion as to the 
 true cause of the disturbance. The doctor happened to be 
 in. " I think I'd better have a little medicine, doctor," 
 said he, on seeing his medical adviser. A stitch in time, 
 you know." 
 
 "Ain't you well?" 
 
 " No," and Mr. Hobart gave his symptoms. 
 
 " An opium pill will do all that is required," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Shall I continue the brandy ?" asked the patient. 
 
 " Have you taken brandy every day since I saw you ?" 
 inquired the doctor. 
 
 "Yes ; twice, and sometimes three times." 
 
 " Ah !" The doctor looked thoughtful. 
 
 " Shall I continue to do so ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you had better omit it for the present. You're 
 not in the habit of drinking any thing ?" 
 
 " No. I haven't tasted brandy before for five years." 
 
 " Indeed ! Yes, now, I remember you said so. You'd 
 better omit it until we see the effect of the opium. Sud 
 den changes are not always good in times like these." 
 
 " I don't think the brandy has hurt me," said Mr. Hobart. 
 
 " Perhaps not. Still, as a matter of prudence, I would 
 avoid it. Let the opium have a full chance, and all will be 
 right again." 
 
 An opium pill was swallowed, and Mr. Hobart went 
 back to his place of business. It had the intended effect 
 That is, it cured one disease by producing another sus 
 pended action took the place of over-action. He was, 
 therefore, far from being in a state of health, or free from 
 danger in a cholera atmosphere. 
 
 There was one part of the doctor's order that Mr. Ho 
 bart did not comply with. The free use of brandy for a 
 few days rekindled the old appetite, and made his desire
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 53 
 
 for liquor so intense, that he had not, or, if he possessed 
 it, did not exercise the power of resistance. 
 
 Sad beyond expression was the heart of Mrs. Hobart, 
 when evening came, and her husband returned home so 
 much under the influence of drink as to show it plainly. 
 She said nothing to him, then, for that she knew would be 
 of no avail. But next morning, as he was rising, she said 
 to him earnestly and almost tearfully. 
 
 " Edward, let me beg of you to reflect before you go further 
 in the way you have entered. You may not be aware of 
 it, but last night you showed so plainly that you had been 
 drinking that I was distressed beyond measure. You 
 know as well as I do, where this will end, if continued. 
 Stop, then, at once, while you have the power to stop. 
 As to preventing disease, it is plain that the use of brandy 
 has not done so in your case ; but, rather, acted as a pre 
 disposing cause. You were perfectly well before you 
 touched it ; you have not been well since. Look at this 
 fact, and, as a wise man, regard its indications." 
 
 Truth was so strong in the words of his wife, that Mr. 
 Hobart did not attempt to gainsay them. 
 
 " I believe you are right," he replied with a good deal 
 of depression apparent in his manner. " I wish the doc 
 tor had kept his brandy advice to himself. It has done me 
 no good." 
 
 " It has done you harm," said his wife. 
 
 " Perhaps it has. Ah, me ! I wish the cholera would 
 subside." 
 
 " I think your fear is too great," returned Mrs. Hobart. 
 " Go on in your usual way ; keep your mind calm ; be as 
 careful in regard to diet, and you need fear no danger." 
 
 " I wish I'd let the brandy alone!" sighed Mr. Hobart, 
 who felt as he spoke, the desire for another draught. 
 
 " So do I. Doctor L must have been mad when 
 
 he advised it." 
 
 " So I now think. I heard yesterday of two or three 
 members of our Order who have been sick, and every one 
 of them used a little brandy as a preventive." 
 
 " It is bad bad. Common sense teaches this. Nc 
 jrreat change of habit is good in a tainted atmosphere. 
 But you see this now, happily, and all will yet be w&! i 
 trust."
 
 54 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 " Yes ; I hope so. I shall touch no more of this brandy- 
 preventive. To that my mind is fully made up." 
 
 Mrs. Hobart felt hopeful when she parted with her hus 
 band. But she knew nothing of the real conflict going on 
 in his mind between reason and awakened appetite else 
 had she trembled and grown faint in spirit. This conflict 
 went on for some hours, when, alas ! appetite conquered. 
 
 At dinner time Mrs. Hobart saw at a glance how it was. 
 The whole manner of her husband had changed. His state 
 of depression was gone, and he exhibited an unnatural 
 exhilaration of spirits. She needed not the sickening odor 
 of his breath to tell the fatal secret that he had been 
 unable to control himself. 
 
 It was worse at night. He came home so much beside 
 himself that he could with difficulty walk erectly. Half 
 conscious of his condition, he did not attempt to join the 
 family, but went up stairs and groped his way to bed. 
 Mrs. Hobart did not follow him to his chamber. Heart 
 sick, she retired to another room, and there wept bitterly 
 for more than an hour. She was hopeless. Up from the 
 melancholy past arose images of degradation and suffering, 
 too dreadful to contemplate. She felt that she had not 
 strength to suffer again as she had suffered through many, 
 many years. From this state she was aroused by groans 
 from the room where her husband lay. Alarmed by the 
 sounds, she instantly went to him. 
 
 " What is the matter?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Oh! oh! I am in so much pain !" was groaned half 
 inarticulately. 
 
 " In pain, where ?" 
 
 " Oh ! oh !" -wis repeated, in a tone of suffering ; and 
 then he commenced vomiting. 
 
 Mrs. Hobart placed her hand upon his forehead and found 
 it cold and clammy. Other and more painful symptoms 
 followed. _ Before the doctor, who was immediately sum 
 moned, arrived, his whole system had become prostrate, 
 and was fast sinking into a state of collapse. It was a de 
 cided case of cholera. 
 
 " Has he been eating any thing improper ?" asked Doctor 
 
 L , after administering such remedies, and ordering 
 
 such treatment as he deemed the case required.
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 55 
 
 " Has he eaten no green fruit?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 "Nothing, to my knowledge, replied Mrs. Hobart. 
 " We have been very careful in regard to food." 
 
 " Nor unripe vegetables ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hobart shook her head. 
 
 " Nor fish ?" 
 
 " Nothing of the kind." 
 
 " That is strange. He was well a few days ago." 
 
 " Yes, perfectly, until he began to take a little brandy 
 every day as a preventive." 
 
 "Ah!" The doctor looked thoughtful. "But it 
 couldn't have been that. I take a little pure brandy 
 every day, and find it good. I recommend it to all my 
 patients." 
 
 Mrs. Hobart sighed. Then she asked "Do you think 
 him dangerous?" 
 
 " I hope not. The attack is sudden and severe. But 
 much worse cases recover. I will call round again before 
 bed time." 
 
 The doctor went away feeling far from comfortable. 
 Only a few hours before he had left a man sick with 
 cholera beyond recovery, who had, to his certain know 
 ledge, adopted the brandy-drinking-preventive-system but 
 a week before ; and that at his recommendation. And here 
 was another case. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Dr. L called to see Mr. Hobart 
 
 again, and found him rapidly sinking. Not a single symp 
 tom had been reached by his treatment. The poor man 
 was in great pain. Every muscle in his body seemed 
 affected by cramps and spasms. His mind, however, was 
 perfectly clear. As the doctor sat feeling his pulse, 
 Hobart said to him 
 
 " Doctor L , it is too late !" 
 
 " Oh, no. It is never too late," replied the doctor. 
 " Don't think of death ; think of life, and that will help to 
 sustain you. You are not, by any means, at the last point. 
 Hundreds, worse than you now are, come safely through. 
 I don't intend to let you slip through my hands." 
 
 "Doctor," said the sick man, speaking in a solemn 
 voice, " I feel that I am beyond the reach of medicine. I 
 shall die. What I now say I do not mean as a reproach.
 
 56 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 
 
 I speak it only as a truth right for you to know. Do you 
 See nay poor wife ?" 
 
 The doctor turned his eyes upon Mrs. Hobart, who stood 
 weeping by the bedside. 
 
 " When she is left a widow, and my children orphans," 
 "continued the patient, " remember that you have made 
 them such!" 
 
 "Me! Why do you say that, Mr. Hobart?" The 
 doctor looked startled. 
 
 " Because it is the truth. I was a well man, when you, 
 as my medical adviser, recommended me to drink brandy 
 as a protection against disease. I was in fear of the in 
 fection, and followed your prescription. From the moment 
 I took the first draught my body lost its healthy equilibrium ; 
 and not only my body, but my mind. I was a reformed 
 man, and the taste inflamed the old appetite. From that 
 time until now I have not been really sober." 
 
 The doctor was distressed and confounded by this 
 declaration. He had feared that such was the case ; but 
 now it was charged unequivocally. 
 
 " I am pained at all this," he replied, " In sinning I 
 sinned ignorantly." 
 
 But, ere he could finish his reply, the sick man became 
 suddenly worse, and sunk into a state of insensibility. 
 
 " If it be in human power to save his life," murmured 
 the doctor " I will save it." 
 
 Through the whole night he remained at the bed-side, 
 giving, with his own hands, all the remedies, and applying 
 every curative means within reach. But," when the day 
 broke, there was little, if any change for the better. He 
 then went home, but returned in a couple of hours. 
 
 " How is your husband ?" he asked of the pale-faced 
 wife as he entered. She did not reply, and they went up 
 to the chamber together. A deep silence reigned in the 
 room as they entered. 
 
 " Is he asleep?" whispered the doctor. 
 
 " See !" The wife threw back the sheet. 
 
 " !" was the only sound that escaped the doctor's lips. 
 It was a prolonged sound, and uttered in a tone of exquisite 
 distress. The white and ghastly face of death was before him. 
 
 " It is your work !" murmured the unhappy woman, half 
 beside herself in her affliction.
 
 BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE. 57 
 
 "Madam! do not say that!" ejaculated the physician. 
 "Do not say that!" 
 
 " It is the truth ! Did he not charge it upon you with 
 his dying breath ?" 
 
 " I did all for the best, madam ! all for the best ! It was 
 an error in his case. But I meant him no harm." 
 
 " You put poison to his lips, and destroyed him. You 
 have made his wife a widow and his children orphans !" 
 
 " Madam ! " The doctor knit his brows and spoke in a 
 stern voice. But, ere he had uttered a word more, the 
 stricken-hearted woman gave a wild scream and fell upon 
 the floor. Nature had been tried beyond the point of en 
 durance, and reason was saved at the expense of physical 
 prostration. 
 
 A few weeks later, and Doctor L , in driving past 
 
 the former residence of MJ, Hobart, saw furniture cars at 
 the door. The family were removing. Death had taken 
 the husband and father, arid the poor widow was going 
 forth with her little ones from the old and pleasant home, to 
 gather them around her in a smaller and poorer place. His 
 feelings at the moment mone need envy. 
 
 How many, like Mr. Hobart, have died through the 
 insane prescription of brandy as a preventive to cholera ! 
 and how many more have fallen back into old habits, and 
 become hopeless drunkards ! Brandy is not good for health 
 at any time ; how much less so, when the very air we 
 breathe is filled with a subtle poison, awaiting the least dis 
 turbance in the human economy to affect it with disease.
 
 THE 
 
 TEMPERANCE PLEDGE, 
 
 " I WANT a quarter of a dollar, Jane." 
 
 This was addressed by a miserable creature, bloated and 
 disfigured by intemperance, to a woman, whose thin, pale 
 face, and heart-broken look, told but too plainly that she 
 was the drunkard's wife. 
 
 " Not a quarter of a dollar, John ? Surely you will not 
 waste a quarter of a dollar of my hard earnings, when you 
 know that I can scarcely get food and decent clothes for 
 the children ?" 
 
 As the wife said this, she looked up into her husband's 
 face with a sad appealing expression. 
 
 " I must have a quarter, Jane," said the man firmly. 
 
 " 0, John ! remember our little ones. The cold- weather 
 will soon be here, and I have not yet been able to get them 
 shoes. If you will not earn any thing yourself, do not waste 
 the little my hard labor can procure. Will not a sixpence 
 do ? Surely that is enough for you to spend for " 
 
 " Nothing will do but a quarter, Jane, and that I must 
 have, if I steal it !" was the prompt and somewhat earnest 
 reply. 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis laid aside her work mechanically and, rising, 
 went to a drawer, and from a cup containing a single dol 
 lar in small pieces, her little all, took out a quarter of a 
 dollar, and turning to her husband, said, as she handed it 
 to him 
 
 " Remember, that you are taking the bread out of your 
 children's mouths !" 
 
 " Not so bad as that, I hope, Jane," said the drunkard, 
 as he clutched the money eagerly ; something like a feeble 
 smile flitting across his disfigured and distorted countenance. 
 
 " Yes, and worse !" was the response, made in a sadder 
 tone than that in which the wife had at first spoken. 
 
 " How worse, Jane ?" 
 
 " John !" and the wife spoke with a sudden energy, 
 58
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 59 
 
 while her countenance lighted up with a strange gleam. 
 "John, I cannot bear this much longer! I feel myself 
 sinking every day. And you you who pledged your 
 self 
 
 Here the voice of the poor woman gave way, and cover 
 ing her face with her hands, she bent her head upon her 
 bosom, and sobbed and wept hysterically. 
 
 The drunkard looked at her for a moment, and then 
 turning hurriedly, passed from the room. For some mo 
 ments after the door had closed upon her husband, did 
 Mrs. Jarvis stand, sobbing and weeping. Then slowly 
 returning to her chair near the window, she resumed her 
 work, with an expression of countenance that was sad and 
 hopeless. 
 
 In the mean time, the poor wretch who had thus reduced 
 his family to a state of painful destitution, after turning 
 away from his door, walked slowly along the street with his 
 head bowed down, as if engaged in, to him, altogether a 
 new employment, that of self-communion. All at once a 
 hand was laid familiarly upon his shoulders, and a well- 
 known voice said 
 
 " Come, John, let's have a drink." 
 
 " Jarvis looked up with a bewildered air, and the first 
 thing that caught his eye, after it glanced away from the 
 face of one of his drinking cronies, was a sign with bright 
 gold letters, bearing the words, " EAGLE COFFEE-HOUSE." 
 That sign was as familiar to him as the face of one of his 
 children. At the same moment that his eyes rested upon 
 this, creating an involuntary impulse to move towards the 
 tavern-door, his old crony caught hold of his coat-collar 
 and gave him a pull in the same direction. But much to 
 the surprise of the latter, Jarvis resisted this attempt to give 
 his steps a direction that would lead him into his old, ac 
 customed haunt. 
 
 " Won't you drink this morning, Jarvis ?" asked the 
 other, with a look of surprise. 
 
 There was evidently a powerful struggle going on in 
 the mind of the drunkard. This lasted only for a moment 
 or two, when he said, loudly, and emphatically 
 
 "No!" 
 
 And instantly broke from his old boon companion, and 
 hurried on his way. 
 
 8
 
 60 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 A loud laugh followed him, but he heeded it not. Ten 
 minutes' walk brought him to the store of a respectable 
 tradesman. 
 
 " Is Mr. R - in ?" he asked, as he entered. 
 
 " Back at the desk," was the answer of a clerk. 
 
 And Jarvis walked back with a resolute air, 
 
 Mr. R - , I want to sign the pledge!" 
 
 "You, Jarvis?" Mr. R - said, in tones of gratified 
 surprise. 
 
 " Yes, me, Mr. R - . It's almost a hopeless case ; 
 but here goes to do my best." 
 
 " Are you fully sensible of what you are about doing, 
 
 " I think I am, Mr. R - . I've drunk nothing since 
 yesterday morning, and with the help of Him above, I am 
 determined never to drink another drop as long as I live ! 
 So read me the pledge and let me sign it." 
 
 Mr. R - turned at once to the constitution of the 
 Washington Temperance Society, and read the pledge there 
 unto annexed : 
 
 " * We, the undersigned, do pledge ourselves to each 
 other, as gentlemen, that we will not, hereafter, drink any 
 spiritous liquors, wine, rnalt, or cider, unless in sickness, 
 and under the prescription of a physician.' " 
 
 Jarvis took the pen in his hand, that trembled so he 
 could scarcely make a straight mark on paper, and enrolled 
 his name among the hundreds of those, who, like him, had 
 resolved to be men once more. This done, he laid down 
 the quarter of a dollar which he had obtained from his wife, 
 the admission fee required of all who joined the society. As 
 he turned from the tradesman's store, his step was firmer 
 and his head more erect, than, in a sober state, he had 
 carried it for many a day. 
 
 From thence he proceeded to a hatter's-shop. 
 
 " Well, Jarvis," was uttered in rather a cool, repulsive 
 tone, as he entered. 
 
 "Are you not in want of a journeyman, Mr. Warren ?" 
 
 " I don't want you, Jarvis." 
 
 "If you will give me work, I'll never get drunk again, 
 Mr. Warren." 
 
 " You've said that too many times, Jarvis. The last 
 time you went off when I was hurried with work, and
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 61 
 
 caused me to disappoint a customer, I determined never to 
 have any thing more to do with you." 
 
 " But I'll never disappoint you again," urged the poor 
 man earnestly. 
 
 " It's no use for you to talk to me, Jarvis. You and I 
 are done with each other. I have made up my mind never 
 again to have a man in my shop who drinks rum." 
 
 " But I've joined the temperance society, Mr. Warren." 
 
 " I don't care if you have : in two weeks you'll be lying 
 in the gutter." 
 
 " I'll never drink liquor again if I die!" said Jarvis, 
 solemnly." 
 
 " Look here, you drunken vagabond !" returned the 
 master hatter in angry tones, coming from behind the coun 
 ter, and standing in front of the individual he was address 
 ing " if you are not out of this shop in two minutes by 
 the watch, I'll kick you into the street ! So there now 
 take your choice to go out, or be kicked out." 
 
 Jarvis turned sadly away without a reply, and passed out 
 of the door through which he had entered with a heart full 
 of hope, now pained, and almost ready to recede from his 
 earnest resolution and pledge to become a sober man and 
 a better husband and father. He felt utterly discouraged. 
 As he walked slowly along the street, the fumes of a 
 coffee-house which he was passing, unconsciously, struck 
 upon his sense, and immediately came an almost overpower 
 ing desire for his accustomed potation. He paused 
 
 " Now that I try to reform, they turn against me," he 
 sighed bitterly. " It is no use ; I am gone past hope !" 
 
 One step was taken towards the tavern-door, when it 
 seemed as if a strong hand held him back. 
 
 "No no!" he murmured, "I have taken the pledge, 
 and I will stand by it, if I die !" 
 
 Then moving resolutely onward, he soon found himself 
 near the door of another hatter's-shop. Hope again kindled 
 up in his bosom, and he entered. 
 
 " Don't you want a hand, Mr. Mason ?" he asked, in a 
 hesitating tone. 
 
 " Not a drunken one, Jarvis," was the repulsive answer. 
 
 " But I've reformed, Mr. Mason." 
 
 " So I should think from your looks."
 
 62 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 "But, indeed, Mr. Mason I have quit drinking, and 
 taken the pledge." 
 
 " To break it in three days. Perhaps three hours." 
 
 " Won't you give me work, Mr. Mason, if I promise to 
 be sober ?" 
 
 " No ! For I would not give a copper for your pro 
 mises." 
 
 Poor Jarvis, turned away. When he had placed his 
 hand to the pledge, he dreamed not of these repulses and 
 difficulties. He was a good workman, and he thought 
 that any one of his old employers would be glad to get him 
 back again, so soon as they learned of his having signed 
 the total-abstinence pledge. But he had so often promised 
 amendment, and so often broken his promise and disap 
 pointed them, that they had lost all confidence in him ; at 
 least, the two to whom he had, thus far, made application. 
 
 After leaving the shop of Mr. Mason, Jarvis seemed al 
 together irresolute. He would walk on a few steps, and 
 then pause to commune with his troubled and bewildered 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I will try Lankford," said he, at length, half- aloud ; 
 " he will give me work, surely." 
 
 A brisk walk of some ten minutes brought him to the 
 door of a small hatter's-shop in a retired street. Behind 
 the counter of this shop stood an old man, busily employed 
 in ironing a hat. There was something benevolent in his 
 countenance and manner. As Jarvis entered, he looked 
 up, and a shade passed quickly over his face. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Lankford," said Jarvis, bowing, 
 with something like timidity and shame in his manner. 
 
 " Are you not afraid to come here, John ?" replied the 
 old man, sternly. 
 
 " I am ashamed to come, but not afraid. You will not 
 harm me, I know." 
 
 " Don't trust to that, John. Did you not steal, ay, that 
 is the word did you not steal from me the last time I em 
 ployed you ?" The old man was stern and energetic in 
 his manner. 
 
 "1 was so wicked as to take a couple of skins, Mr. 
 Lankford, but I did very wrong, and am willing to repay 
 you for them, if you will give me work. I was in liquor
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 63 
 
 when I did it, and, when in liquor, I have no distinct 
 consciousness of the evil of any action." 
 
 " Give you work, indeed ! 0, no ! John ; I cannot give 
 you another chance to rob me." 
 
 " But I will not get drunk any more. And you know, 
 Mr. Lankford, that while I w r as a sober man, and worked 
 for you, I never wronged you out of a sixpence worth." 
 
 " Won't get drunk any more ! Ah ! John, I have lived 
 too long in the world, and have seen too much, to heed 
 such promises." 
 
 " But I am in earnest, Mr. Lankford. I signed the 
 pledge this morning." 
 
 " You !" in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "Yes, /signed it." 
 
 " Ah, John," after a pause, and shaking his head in 
 credulously, " I cannot credit your word, and I am sorry 
 for it." 
 
 " If I have signed the pledge, and if I am really de 
 termined to be a reformed man, will you give me work, Mr. 
 Lankford !" 
 
 The old man thought for a few moments, and then said, 
 half-sorrowfully 
 
 " I am afraid of you, John. You are such an old 
 offender on the score of drunkenness, that I have no confi 
 dence in your power to keep the pledge." 
 
 " Then what shall I do !" the poor wretch exclaimed, in 
 tones that made the heart of the old man thrill for nature 
 and pathos were in them. " Now that I am trying in 
 earnest to do better, no one will give -me a word of en 
 couragement, nor a helping hand. Heaven help me ! for 
 I am forsaken of man." 
 
 Mr. Lankford stood thoughtful and irresolute for some 
 moments. At length, he said 
 
 " John, if you will bring me a certificate from Mr. R , 
 
 that you have signed the total-abstinence pledge, I will 
 give you another trial. But if you disappoint me again, 
 you and I are done for ever." 
 
 The countenance of Jarvis brightened up instantly. He 
 turned quickly away, without reply, and hurried off to 
 
 the store of Mr. R , the secretary of the society he had 
 
 joined. The certificate was, of course, obtained. 
 
 "And you have joined, sure enough, John," Mr. Lank-
 
 64 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 ford said, in a changed tone, as he glanced over the cer 
 tificate. 
 
 " Indeed I have, Mr. Lankford." 
 
 " And you seem in earnest." 
 
 1 If I was ever in earnest about any thing in my life, I 
 am in earnest now." 
 
 "Keep to your pledge, then, John, and all will be well. 
 While you were a sober man, I preferred you to any 
 journeyman in my shop. Keep sober, and you shall 
 never want a day's work while I am in business." 
 
 The poor man was now shown his place in the shop, 
 and once again he resumed his work, though under a far 
 different impulse than had, for years, nerved him to action. 
 
 Two hours brought his regular dinner-time, when Jarvis, 
 who began to feel the want of food, returned home, with 
 new and strange feelings about his heart. One impulse 
 was to tell his wife what he had done, and what he was 
 doing. But then he remembered how often he had mocked 
 her new springing hopes how often he had promised 
 amendment, and once even joined a temperance society, 
 only to relapse into a lower and more degraded condition. 
 
 " No, no," he said to himself, after debating the question 
 in his mind, as he walked towards home ; " I will not tell 
 her now. I will first present some fruit of my repentance. 
 I will give such an assurance as will create confidence and 
 hope." 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis did not raise her eyes to the face of her hus 
 band, as he entered. The sight of that once loved counte 
 nance, distorted and disfigured, ever made her heart sick 
 when she looked upon it. Jarvis seated himself quietly in 
 a chair, and held out his hands for his youngest child, not 
 over two years old, who had no consciousness of his father's 
 degradation. In a moment the happy little creature was on 
 his knee. But the other children showed no inclination to 
 approach. 
 
 The frugal meal passed in silence and restraint. Mrs. 
 Jarvis felt troubled and oppressed for the prospect before 
 her seemed to grow more and more gloomy. All the 
 morning she had suffered from a steady pain in her breast, 
 and from a lassitude that she could not overcome. Her 
 pale, thin, care-worn face, told a sad tale of suffering, 
 privation, confinement, and want of exercise. What was
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 65 
 
 to become of her children she knew not. Under such feel 
 ings of hopelessness, to have one sitting by her side, who 
 could take much of her burdens from her, were he but to 
 will it who could call back the light to her heart, if only 
 true to his promise, made in earlier and happier years 
 soured in some degree her feelings, and obscured her per 
 ceptions. She did not note that some change had passed 
 upon him ; a change that if marked, would have caused 
 her heart to leap in her bosom. 
 
 As soon as Jarvis had risen from the table, he took his 
 hat, and kissing his youngest child, the only one there who 
 seemed to regard him, passed quickly from the house. As 
 the door closed after him, his wife heaved a long sigh, and 
 then rising, mechanically, proceeded to clear up the table. 
 Of how many crushed affections and disappointed hopes, 
 did that one deep, tremulous sigh, speak ! 
 
 Jarvis returned to his work, and applied himself steadily 
 during the whole afternoon. Whenever a desire for liquor 
 returned upon him, he quenched it in a copious draught of 
 water, and thus kept himself as free from temptation as 
 possible. At night he returned, when the same troubled 
 and uneasy silence pervaded the little family at the supper- 
 table. The meal was scanty, for Mrs. Jarvis's incessant 
 labor could procure but a poor supply of food. After the 
 children had been put to bed, Mrs. Jarvis sat down, as 
 usual, to spend the evening, tired as she was, and much 
 as her breast pained her, in sewing. A deep sigh heaved 
 involuntarily her bosom as she did so. It caught the ear 
 of her husband, and smote upon his heart. He knew that 
 her health was feeble, and that constant labor fatigued her 
 excessively. 
 
 " I wouldn't sew to-night, Jane," he said. " You look 
 tired. Rest for one evening." 
 
 Mrs Jarvis neither looked up nor replied. There was 
 something in the tone of her husband's voice that stirred 
 her feelings; something that softened her heart towards 
 him. But she dared not trust herself to speak, nor to let 
 her eye meet his. She did not wish to utter a harsh nor 
 repulsive word, nor was she willing to speak kindly to 
 him, for she did not feel kindly, and kind words and 
 affected cheerfulness, she had already found but encour 
 aged him in his evil ways. And so she continued to ply
 
 66 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 her needle, without appearing to regard his presence. Her 
 husband did not make another effort to induce her to sus 
 pend her labors; for, under existing circumstances, he 
 was particularly desirous of not provoking her to use 
 towards him the language of rebuke and censure. After 
 sitting silent, for, perhaps half an hour, he rose from his 
 chair, and walked three or four times backwards and for 
 wards across the room, preparatory to going out to seek a 
 coffee-house, and there spend his evening, as his wife sup 
 posed. But much to her surprise, he retired to their 
 chamber, in the adjoining room. While still under the 
 expectation of seeing him return, his loud breathing caught 
 her quick ear. He was asleep ! 
 
 Catching up the light, as she arose suddenly to her feet, 
 she passed, with a hasty step, into the chamber. He had 
 undressed himself, was in bed, and sound asleep. She held 
 the candle close to his face , it was calmer than usual, and 
 somewhat paler. As she bent over him, his breath came 
 full in her face. It was not loaded with the disgusting 
 fumes that had so often sickened her. Her heart beat 
 quicker the moisture dimmed her eye her whole frame 
 trembled. Then looking upwards, she uttered a single 
 prayer for her husband, and, gliding quietly from the room, 
 sat down by her little table and again bent over her work. 
 Now she remembered that he had said, with something un 
 usual in his tones " I would not sew to-night, Jane ; you 
 look tired ; rest for one evening" and her heart was agi 
 tated with a new hope ; but that hope, like the dove from 
 the ark, found nothing upon which to rest, and trembled 
 back again into a feeling of despondency. 
 
 On the next morning, the unsteady hand of Jarvis, as 
 he lifted his saucer to his lips at the breakfast-table, made 
 his wife's heart sink again in her bosom. She had felt a 
 hope, almost unconsciously. She remembered that at sup 
 per-time his hand was firm now it was unnerved. This 
 was conclusive to her mind, that, notwithstanding his ap 
 pearance, he had been drinking. But few words passed 
 during the meal, for neither felt much inclined to converse. 
 
 After breakfast, Jarvis returned to the shop and worked 
 steadily until dinner-time, and then again until evening. 
 As on the night before, he did not go out, but retired early 
 to bed. And this was continued all the week. But the
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 67 
 
 whole was a mystery to his poor wife, who dared not even 
 to hope for any real change for the better. On Saturday, 
 towards night, he laid by his work, put on his coat and hat, 
 and went into the front shop. 
 
 " So you have really worked a week, a sober man, 
 John ?" Mr. Lankford said. 
 
 " Indeed, I have. Since last Sunday morning, no kind 
 of intoxicating liquor has passed my lips." 
 
 " How much have you earned this week, John ?" 
 
 " Here is the foreman's account of my work, sir. It 
 comes to twelve dollars." 
 
 " Still a fast workman. You will yet recover yourself, 
 and your family will again be happy, if you persevere." 
 
 " 0, sir, they shall be happy ! I will persevere !" 
 
 Another pause ensued, and then Jarvis said, while the 
 color mounted to his cheek 
 
 " If you are willing, Mr. Lankford, I should like you 
 to deduct only one-half of what I owe you for those furs I 
 took from you, from this week's wages. My family are in 
 want of a good many things ; and I am particularly de 
 sirous of buying a barrel of flour to-night." 
 
 " Say nothing of that, John. Let it be forgotten with 
 your past misdeeds. Here are your wages twelve dol 
 lars and if it gives you as much pleasure to receive, as it 
 does me to pay them, then you feel no ordinary degree of 
 satisfaction." 
 
 Mr. Jarvis received the large sum for him to possess, 
 and hurried away to a grocery. Here he bought, for six 
 dollars, a barrel of flour, and expended two dollars more of 
 his wages in sugar, coffee, tea, molasses, &c. Near to the 
 store was the market-house. Thence he repaired, and 
 bought meat and various kinds of vegetables, with butter, 
 &c. These he carried to the store, and gave directions to 
 have all sent home to him. He had now two dollars left 
 out of the twelve he had earned since Monday morning, 
 and with these in his pocket, he returned home. As he 
 drew near the house, his heart fluttered in anticipation of 
 the delightful change that would pass upon all beneath its 
 humble roof. He had never in his life, experienced feel 
 ings of such real joy. 
 
 A few moments brought him to the door, and he went in 
 with the quick step that had marked his entrance for several
 
 68 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 days. It was not quite dark, and his wife sat sewing by 
 the window. She was finishing a pair of gantaloons that 
 had to go home that very evening, and with the money she 
 was to get for them she expected to buy the Sunday din 
 ner. There was barely enough food in the house for sup 
 per; and unless she received her pay for this piece of 
 work, she had no means of getting the required sustenance 
 for herself and children or rather, for her husband, her 
 self and children. The individual for whom it was in 
 tended was not a prompt pay-master, and usually grumbled 
 whenever Mrs. Jarvis asked him for money. To add to 
 the circumstances of concern and trouble of mind, she felt 
 almost ready to give up, from the excessive pain in her 
 breast, and the weakness of her whole frame. As her hus 
 band came in, she turned upon him an anxious and troubled 
 countenance ; and then bent down over her work and plied 
 her needle hurriedly. As the twilight fell dimly around, 
 she drew nearer and nearer to the window, and at last stood 
 up, and leaned close up to the panes of glass, so that her 
 hand almost touched them, in order to catch the few feeble 
 rays of light that were still visible. But she could not finish 
 the garment upon which she wrought, by the light of day. 
 A candle was now lit, and she took her place by the table, 
 not so much as glancing towards her husband, who had 
 seated himself in a chair, with his youngest child on his 
 knee. Half an hour passed in silence, and then Mrs. 
 Jarvis rose up, having taken the last stitch in the garment 
 she was making, and passed into the adjoining chamber. 
 In a few minutes she came out, with her bonnet and shawl 
 on, and the pair of pantaloons that she had just finished on 
 her arm. 
 
 " Where are you going, Jane ?" her husband asked, in 
 a tone of surprise, that seemed mingled with disappoint 
 ment. 
 
 " I am going to carry home my work." 
 
 " But I wouldn't go now, Jane. Wait until after sup 
 per." 
 
 " No, John. I cannot wait until after supper. The 
 work will be wanted. It should have been home two 
 hours ago." 
 
 And she glided from the room. 
 
 A walk of a few minutes brought her to the door of a
 
 THR TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 69 
 
 tailor's-shop, around the front of which hung sundry gar 
 ments exposed for sale. This shop she entered, and pre 
 sented the pair of pantaloons to a man who stood behind 
 the counter. His face relaxed not a muscle as he took 
 them and made a careful examination of the work. 
 
 " They'll do," he at length said, tossing them aside, 
 and resuming his employment of cutting out a garment. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Jarvis paused, dreading to utter her request. 
 But necessity conquered the painful reluctance, and she 
 said 
 
 " Can you pay me for this pair to-night, Mr. Willets ?" 
 
 " No. I've got more money to pay on Monday than I 
 know where to get, and cannot let a cent go out." 
 
 " But, Mr. Willets, I " 
 
 " I don't want to hear any of your reasons, Mrs. Jarvis. 
 You can't have the money to-night." 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis moved slowly away, and had nearly reached 
 the door, when a thought of her children caused her to 
 pause. 
 
 " I cannot go, Mr. Willets, without the money," she 
 said, suddenly turning, and speaking in an excited tone. 
 
 " You will go, I'm thinking, madam," was the cool 
 reply. 
 
 " 0, sir," changing her tone, "pay me what you owe 
 me ; I want it very much." 
 
 " 0, yes. So you all say. But I am used to such make- 
 believes. You get no money out of me to-night, madam. 
 That's a settled point. I'm angry now so you had better 
 go home at once ; if you don't, I'll never give you a stitch 
 of work, so help " 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis did not pause to hear the concluding words 
 of the sentence. 
 
 '" What shall I do?" was the almost despairing question 
 that she asked of herself, as she hurried towards her home. 
 On entering the house she made no remark, for there was 
 no one to whom she could tell her troubles and disap 
 pointment, with even the most feeble hope of a word of 
 comfort. 
 
 " Does Mr. Jarvis live here?" asked a rough voice at 
 the door. 
 
 " Yes, sir," was the reply.
 
 70 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 
 
 " Well, here is a barrel of flour and some groceries 
 for him." 
 
 " There must be some mistake, sir." 
 
 " Is not this Mr. Jarvis's ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " And number 40 ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then this is the place, for that was the direction 
 given me." 
 
 "Yes, this is the place bring them in," spoke up 
 Jarvis, in an animated tone. 
 
 The drayman, of course, obeyed. First he rolled in the 
 barrel of flour ; then came a number of packages, evidently 
 containing groceries; and, finally, one or two pieces of 
 meat, and sundry lots of vegetables. 
 
 "How much is to pay?" asked Jarvis. 
 
 " Twenty-five cents, sir," responded the drayman, bowing. 
 
 The twenty-five cent piece was taken from his pocket 
 with quite an air, and handed over. Then the drayman 
 went out and that little /ainily were alone again. During 
 the passage of the scene just described, the wife stood 
 looking on with a stupid and bewildered air. When the 
 drayman had departed, she turned to her husband, and 
 said 
 
 " John, where did these things come from ?" 
 
 "I bought them, Jane." 
 
 "You bought them?" 
 
 "Yes, I bought them." 
 
 " And pray, John, what did you buy them with ?" 
 
 " With the quarter of a dollar you gave me on Monday." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 " It is true, Jane. With that quarter I went and joined 
 the Washington Total-Abstinence Society, and then went 
 to work at Mr. Lankford's. Here is the result of one 
 week's work, besides this silver," handing her all that 
 remained, after making the purchases. 
 
 " 0, John, John," the wife exclaimed, bursting into 
 tears, " do not again mock my hopes. I cannot bear 
 much more." 
 
 "In the strength of Him, Jane, who has promised to 
 help us when we call upon Him, " I will not disappoint 
 the hopes I now revive," said Jarvis, slowly and solemnly.
 
 THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE 73 
 
 The almost heart-broken wife and mother leaned her 
 head upon the shoulder of her husband, and clung to his 
 side with a newly-revived confidence, that she felt would 
 not be disappointed, while the tears poured from her eyes 
 like rain. But her true feelings we cannot attempt to 
 describe nor dare we venture to sketch further the scene 
 we have introduced. The reader's imagination can do it 
 more justice, and to him we leave that pleasing task, with 
 only the remark, that Mrs. Jarvis's newly- a wakened joys 
 and hopes have not again been disappointed.
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 "I DON'T see that I am so much better off," said Mr. 
 Gordon, a man who had recently given up drinking. " I 
 lost my situation on the very day I signed the pledge, and 
 have had no regular employment since." 
 
 " But you would have lost your situation if you hadn't 
 signed the pledge, I presume," said the individual to whom 
 he was complaining. 
 
 " Yes. I lost it because I got drunk and spoiled my 
 job. But to hear some temperance people talk, one who 
 didn't know would be led to believe that, the very moment 
 the pledge was signed, -gold could be picked up in the 
 streets. I must confess that I haven't found it so. Money 
 is scarcer with me than it ever was ; and though I don't 
 spend a cent for myself, my family haven't a single comfort 
 more than they had before." 
 
 " Though there's no disputing the fact that they would 
 have many less comforts if you hadn't signed the pledge?" 
 
 " No, I suppose not. But I cannot help feeling dis 
 couraged at the way things go. If I had the same wages 
 I received before I signed the pledge, I could be laying up 
 money. But, as it is, it requires the utmost economy to 
 keep from getting in debt." 
 
 " Still,, you do manage to keep even?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " On about half your former income?" 
 
 " A little over half. I used to get ten dollars a week. 
 Now I manage, by picking up odd jobs here and there, to 
 make about six." 
 
 ; ' Then you are better off than you were before." 
 I hardly see how you can make that out." 
 
 " Your family have enough to live upon all they had 
 before and you have a healthier body, a calmer mind, 
 and a clearer conscience. Isn't here something gained ?" 
 
 " I rather think there is," replied Gordon, smiling. 
 (74)
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 75 
 
 " And I rather think you are a good deal better off than 
 you were before. Isn't your wife happier ?" 
 
 " ! yes. She's as cheerful as a lark all the day." 
 
 " And doesn't murmur because of your light wages ?" 
 
 " No, indeed ! not she. I believe if I didn't earn more 
 than three dollars a week, and kept sober, she would make 
 it do, somehow or other, and keep a good heart. It's 
 wonderful how much she is changed !" 
 
 "And yet you are no better off? Ain't you better off 
 .in having a happy wife and a pleasant home, what I am 
 sure you hadn't before ?" 
 
 " You are right in that. I certainly had neither of them 
 before. Oh ! yes. I am much better off all around. I 
 only felt a little despondent, because I can't get regular 
 employment as I used to, and good wages ; for now, if I 
 had these, I could do so well." 
 
 " Be patient, friend Gordon ; time will make all right. 
 There are three words that every reformed man should 
 write on the walls of his chamber, that he may see them 
 every morning. They are ' Time, Faith, Energy.' No 
 matter how low he may have fallen ; no matter how dis 
 couraging all things around him may appear ; let him 
 have energy, and faith in time, and all will come out well at 
 last." 
 
 Gordon went home, feeling in better heart than when he 
 met the temperance friend who had spoken to him these 
 encouraging words. 
 
 Henry Gordon, when he married, had just commenced 
 business for himself, and went on for several years doing 
 very well. He laid by enough money to purchase himself 
 a snug little house, and was in a good way for accumulating 
 a comfortable property, when the habit of dram-drinking, 
 which he had indulged for years, became an over-master 
 ing passion. From that period he neglected his business, 
 which steadily declined. In half the time it took to accu 
 mulate the property he possessed, all disappeared his 
 business was broken up, and he compelled to work at his 
 trade as a journeyman to support his family. From a third 
 to a half of the sum he earned weekly, he spent in gratify 
 ing the debasing appetite that had almost beggared his 
 family and reduced him to a state of degradation little 
 above that of the brute. The balance was given to his
 
 76 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 sad-hearted wife, to get food for the hungry, half-clothed 
 children. 
 
 Nor was this all. Debts were contracted which Gordon 
 was unable to pay. One or two of his creditors, more ex 
 acting than the rest, seized upon his furniture and sold it 
 to satisfy their claims, leaving to the distressed family only 
 the few articles exempt by law. 
 
 Things had reached this low condition, when Gordon 
 came home from the shop, one day, some hours earlier than 
 usual. Surprised at seeing him, his wife said 
 
 " What's the matter, Henry ? Are you sick ?" 
 
 " No !" he replied, sullenly, " I'm discharged." 
 
 " Discharged ! For what, Henry ?" 
 
 " For spoiling a job." 
 
 " How did that happen ?" Mrs. Gordon spoke kindly, 
 although she felt anxious and distressed. 
 
 "How has all my trouble happened?" asked Gordon, 
 with unusual bitterness of tone. " I took a glass too 
 much, and and " 
 
 " It made you spoil your job," said his wife, her voice 
 still kind. 
 
 " Yes. Curse the day I ever saw a drop of liquor ! It 
 has been the cause of all my misfortunes." 
 
 " Why not abandon its use at once and for ever, Henry ?" 
 
 " That is not so easily done." 
 
 " Hundreds have done it, and are doing it daily, and so 
 may you. Only make the resolution, Henry. Only deter 
 mine to break these fetters, and you are free. Let the 
 time past, wherein you have wrought folly, and your family 
 suffered more than words can express, suffice. Only will 
 it, and there will be a bright future for all of us." 
 
 Tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Gordon while she 
 made this appeal, although she strove hard to appear calm. 
 Her husband felt a better spirit awaking within him. There 
 was a brief struggle between appetite and the good resolu 
 tion that was forming in his mind, and then the latter con 
 quered. 
 
 " I will be free !" he said, turning towards the door 
 through which he had a little while before entered, and 
 hurriedly leaving the house. 
 
 The hour that passed from the time her husband went 
 out until he returned, was one of most anxious suspense to
 
 TIME, FAITH ; ENERGY. 77 
 
 Mrs. Gordon. Her hand trembled so that she could not 
 hold her needle, and was obliged to lay aside the sewing 
 upon which she was engaged, and go about some house 
 hold employments. 
 
 " Mary, I have signed the pledge, if that will do any 
 good," said Gordon, opening the door and coming in upon 
 his wife with his pledge in his hand. " There," and he 
 unrolled the paper and pointed to his name ; " there is my 
 signature, and here is the document." 
 
 He did not speak very cheerfully ; but his wife's face 
 was lit up with a sudden brightness, followed by a gush of 
 tears. 
 
 " Do any good !" she replied, leaning her head upon his 
 shoulder, and grasping one of his hands tightly in both of 
 hers. " It will do all good !" 
 
 " But I have no work, Mary. I was discharged to-day^ 
 and it is the only shop in town. What are we to do ?" 
 
 " Mr. Evenly will take you back, now that you have 
 signed the pledge." 
 
 " Perhaps he will !" Gordon spoke more cheerfully, 
 " I will go and see him to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon prepared her husband a strong cup of coffee, 
 and baked some nice hot cakes for his supper. She combed 
 her hair, and made herself as tidy as possible. The chil 
 dren, too, were much improved in their looks by a little 
 attention, which their mother felt encouraged to give. 
 There was an air of comfort about the ill-furnished dwell 
 ing of Henry Gordon that it had not known for a long 
 time, and he felt it. 
 
 On the next morning, after breakfast, Gordon went back 
 to the shop from which he had been discharged only the 
 day previous. Evenly, the owner of it, was a rough, un 
 feeling man, and had kept Gordon on, month after month, 
 because he could not well do without him. But, on the 
 very day he discharged him, a man from another town had 
 applied for work, and the spoiled job was made an excuse 
 for discharging a journeyman, whose habits of intoxication 
 had always been offensive to the master-workman. 
 
 When Gordon entered the shop for the purpose of ask 
 ing to be taken back, he met Evenly near the door, who 
 said to him, in a rough manner 
 
 " And what do you want, pray ?" 
 10
 
 78 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 " I want you to take me back again," replied Gordon. 
 " I have signed the pledge, and intend leading a sober life 
 hereafter." 
 
 " The devil you have !" 
 
 " Yes sir. I signed it yesterday, after you discharged 
 me." 
 
 " How long do you expect to keep it ?" asked Evenly, 
 with a sneer. "Long enough to reach the next grog 
 shop ?" 
 
 " I have taken the pledge for life, I trust," returned the 
 workman, seriously. He was hurt at the contemptuous 
 manner of his old employer, but his dependent condition 
 made him conceal his feelings. " You will have no more 
 trouble with me." 
 
 " No, I am aware of that. I will have no more trouble 
 with you, for I never intend to let you come ten feet inside 
 the front door of my shop." 
 
 " But I have reformed my bad habit, Mr. Evenly. I 
 will give you no more trouble with my drinking," said the 
 poor man, alarmed at this language. 
 
 " It's no use for you to talk to me, Gordon," replied 
 Evenly, in a rough manner. " I've long wanted to get rid 
 of you, and I have finally succeeded. Your place is filled. 
 So there is no more to say on that subject. Good morn 
 ing." 
 
 And the man turned on his heel and left Gordon standing 
 half stupified at what he had heard. 
 
 " Rum's done the business for you at last, my lark ! I 
 told you it would come to this!" said an old fellow work* 
 man, who heard what passed between Gordon and the em 
 ployer. He spoke in a light, insulting voice. 
 
 Without replying, the unhappy man left the shop, feeling 
 more wretched than he had ever felt in his life. 
 
 " And thus I am met at my first effort to reform !" he 
 murmured, bitterly. 
 
 " Hallo, Gordon ! Where are you going?" cried a voice 
 as these words fell from his lips. 
 
 He looked up and found himself opposite to the door of 
 one of his old haunts. It was the keeper of it who had 
 called him. 
 
 " Come ! Walk in and let us see your pleasant face this 
 morning. Where were you last night ? My company all
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 79 
 
 complained about your absence. We were as dull as a 
 funeral." 
 
 " Curse you and your company too !" ejaculated Gordon 
 between his teeth, and moved on, letting his eyes fall again 
 to the pavement. 
 
 " Hey-day ! What's the matter ?" 
 
 But Gordon did not stop to bandy words with one of 
 the men who had helped to ruin him. 
 
 " It's all over with us, Mary. Evenly's got a man in my 
 place," said Gordon, as he entered his house and threw 
 himself despairingly into a chair. 
 
 " But won't he give you work, too ?" asked Mrs. Gor 
 don, in a husky voice. 
 
 " No ! He insulted me, and said I should never come 
 ten feet inside of his shop." 
 
 " Did you tell him that you had signed the pledge ?" 
 
 " Yes. But it was no use. He did not seem to care 
 for me any more than he did for a dog." 
 
 The poor man's distress was so great that he covered his 
 face with his hands, and sat swinging his body to and 
 fro, and uttering half-suppressed moans. 
 
 " What are we to do, Mary ? There is no other shop in 
 town," he said, looking up, after growing a little calm. 
 " Doesn't it seem hard, just as I am trying to do right ?" 
 
 " Don't despair, Henry. Let us trust in Providence. 
 It is only a dark moment ; yet, dark as it is, it is brighter 
 to me than any period has been for years. A clear head 
 and ready hands will not go long unemployed. I do not 
 despond, dear husband, neither should you. Keep fast an 
 chored to your pledge, and we will outride the storm." 
 
 " But we shall starve, Mary. We cannot live upon air." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Gordon ; " but we can live upon 
 half what you have been earning at your trade, and quite 
 as comfortably as we have been living. And it will be an 
 extreme case, I think, if you can't get employment at five 
 dollars a week, doing something or other. Don't you ?" 
 
 " It appears so. Certainly I ought to be able to earn 
 five dollars a week, if it is at sawing wood. I'll do that 
 I'll do any thing." 
 
 " Then we needn't be alarmed. I'll try and get some 
 sewing at any rate, to help out. So brighten up, Henry. 
 All will be well. It will take a little time to get thii gs
 
 80 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 going right again ; but time and industry will do all for us 
 that we could ask." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Gordon started out to see if he could 
 find something to do. It was a new thing for him to go in 
 search of work ; and rather hard, he felt, to be obliged al 
 most to beg for it. Where to go, or to whom to apply, he 
 did not know. After wandering about for several hours, 
 and making several applications at out of the way places 
 with no success, he turned his steps homeward, feeling 
 utterly cast down. In this state, he was assailed by the 
 temptation to drown all his trouble in the cup of confusion, 
 and nearly drawn aside ; but a thought of his wife, and the 
 bright hope that had sprung up in her heart in the midst of 
 darkness, held him back. 
 
 " It's no use to try, Mary," he said, despondingly, as 
 he entered his poorly-furnished abode, and found his wife 
 busy with her needle. " I can't get any work." 
 
 " I have been more successful than you have, Henry," 
 Mrs. Gordon returned, speaking cheerfully. " I went to 
 see if Mrs. Hewitt hadn't some sewing to give out, and she 
 gave me a dozen shirts to make. So don't be discouraged. 
 You can afford to wait for work even for two or three 
 weeks, if it doesn't come sooner. Let us be thankful for 
 what we have to-day, and trust in God for to-morrow. De 
 pend upon it, we shall not want. Providence never for 
 sakes the man who is trying to do right." 
 
 Thus Mrs. Gordon strove to keep up the spirits of her 
 husband. After dinner, he went out again and called to 
 see a well-known temperance man. After relating to him 
 what he had done, and how unhappily he was situated in 
 regard to work, the man said 
 
 " It won't do to be idle, Gordon ; that's clear. An idle 
 man is tempted ten times to another's once. You will 
 never be able to keep the pledge unless you get something 
 to do. We must assist you in this matter. What can you 
 do besides your trade ?" 
 
 " I have little skill beyond my regular calling; but then, 
 I have health, strength, and willingness; and I think 
 these might be made useful in something." 
 
 " So do I. Now to start with, I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 If you will come and open my store for me every morning, 
 make the fire and sweep out, and come and stay an hour for
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 81 
 
 me every day while I go to dinner, I will give you three 
 dollars a week. Two hours a day is all your time I shall 
 want." 
 
 " Thank you from my heart! Of course I accept your 
 offer. So far so good,'' said Gordon, brightening up. 
 
 " Very well. You may begin with to-morrow morning. 
 No doubt you can make an equal sum by acting as a light 
 porter for the various stores about. I can throw a little in 
 your way; and I will speak to my neighbors to do the 
 sam^e." 
 
 There was not a happier home in the whole town than 
 was the home of Henry Gordon that night, poor as it was. 
 
 " I knew it would all come out right," said Mrs. Gordon. 
 " I knew a better day was coming. We can live quite 
 comfortably upon five or six dollars a week, and be happier 
 than we have been for years." 
 
 When Gordon thought of the past, he did not wonder 
 that tears fell over the face of his wife, even while her lips 
 and eyes were bright with smiles. 
 
 As the friend had supposed, Gordon was employed to do 
 many errands by the storekeepers in the neighborhood. 
 Some weeks he made five dollars and sometimes six or 
 seven. This went on for a few months, when he began to 
 feel discouraged. The recollection of other and brighter 
 days returned frequently to his mind, and he began ardently 
 to desire an improved external condition, as well for his 
 wife and children as for himself. He wished to restore 
 what had been lost ; but saw no immediate prospect of 
 being able to do so. Six dollars a week was the average 
 of his earnings, and it took all this, besides what little his 
 wife earned, to make things tolerably comfortable at home. 
 
 Gordon was in a more desponding mood than usual, 
 when he indulged in the complaint with which our story 
 opens. What was said to him changed the tone of his 
 feelings, and inspired him with a spirit of cheerfulness and 
 hope. 
 
 " Time, Faith, Energy !" he said to himself, as he walked 
 with a more elastic step. " Yes, these must bring out all 
 right m the end. I will not be so weak as to despond. All 
 is much improved as it is. We are happier and better. 
 Time, Faith, Energy! I will trust in these." 
 
 When Gordon opened the door of his humble abode, he
 
 82 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 found a lad waiting to see him, who arose, and presenting 
 a small piece of paper, said 
 
 " Mr. Blake wishes to know when you can settle this?" 
 
 Mr. Blake was a grocer, to whom ten dollars had been 
 owing for a year. He had dunned the poor drunkard for 
 the money until he got tired of so profitless a business, and 
 gave up the account for lost. By some means, it had 
 recently come to his ears that Gordon had signed the 
 pledge. 
 
 " Some chance for me yet," he said, and immediately 
 had the bill made out anew, and sent in ; not thinking or 
 caring whether it might not be premature for him to do so, 
 and have the effect to discourage the poor man and drive 
 him back to his old habits. What he wanted was his 
 money. It was his due ; and he meant to have it if he 
 could get it. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Blake that I will pay him as soon as possible. 
 At present it is out of my power," said Gordon, in answer 
 to the demand. 
 
 The lad, in the spirit of his master, turned away with a 
 sulky air, and left the house. 
 
 Poor Gordon's feelings went down to zero in a moment. 
 
 " It's hopeless, Mary ! I see it all as plain as day," he 
 said. " The moment I get upon my feet, there will be a 
 dozen to knock me down. While I was a drunkard, no 
 one thought of dunning me for money ; but now that I am 
 trying to do right, every one to whom I am indebted a 
 dollar will come pouncing down upon me." 
 
 " It's a just debt, Henry, you know, and we ought to 
 pay it." 
 
 " I don't dispute that. But we can't pay it now." 
 
 " Then Blake can't get it now ; so there the matter will 
 have to rest. A little dunning won't kill us. We have 
 had harder trials than that to bear. So don't get dis 
 couraged so easily." 
 
 The words " Time, Faith, Energy !" came into the mind 
 of Gordon and rebuked him. 
 
 " There is sense in what you say, Mary," he replied. 
 " I know I am too easily discouraged. We owe Blake, 
 that is clear ; and I suppose he is right in trying to get his 
 money. We can't pay him now ; and therefore he can't 
 get it now, do what he will. So we will be no worse for
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 83 
 
 his dunning, if he duns every day. But I hate so to be 
 asked for money." 
 
 " I'll tell you what might be done," said Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 " Well ?" inquired the husband. 
 
 " Mr. Blake has a large family, and no doubt his wife 
 gives out a good deal of sewing. I could work it out." 
 
 Gordon thought a few moments, and then said 
 
 "Or, better than that; perhaps Blake would let me 
 work it out in his store. I have a good deal of time on 
 my hands unemployed." 
 
 " Yes, that would be better," replied Mrs. Gordon ; 
 " for I have as much sewing as I can do, and get paid 
 for it all." 
 
 This thought brightened the spirits of Gordon. As soon 
 as he had eaten his dinner he started for the store of Mr. 
 Blake. 
 
 " I've come to talk to you about that bill of mine," said 
 Mr. Gordon. 
 
 " Well, what of it ?" returned the grocer. 
 
 " I wish to pay it, but have not the present ability. I 
 lost my situation on the very day I signed the pledge, and 
 have had no regular employment since. So far, I have only 
 been able to pick up five or six dollars a week, and it takes 
 all that to live upon. But I have time to spare, Mr. Blake, 
 if I have no money ; and if I can pay you in labor, I will 
 be glad to do so." 
 
 " I don't know that I could ask more than that," replied 
 the grocer. "If I did, I would be unreasonable. Let me 
 see : I reckon I could find a day's work for you about the 
 store at least once a week, for which I would allow you a 
 credit of one dollar and a quarter. How would that do?" 
 
 " It would be exactly what I would like. I can spare 
 you a day easily. And it is much better to work out an 
 old debt than to be idle." 
 
 " Very well, Gordon. Come to-morrow and work for 
 me, and I will pass a dollar and a quarter to your account. 
 I like this. It shows you are an honest man. Never fear 
 but what you'll get along." 
 
 The approving words of the grocer encouraged Gordon 
 very much. On the next day he went as he had agreed 
 and worked for Mr. Blake. When he was about leaving 
 the store at night, Blake called to him and said
 
 84 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 " Here, Gordon, stop a moment. I want you to put up 
 a pound of this white crushed sugar, and a quarter of young 
 hyson tea." 
 
 Gordon did as he was directed. Blake took the two 
 packages from the counter, and handing them to Gordon, 
 said 
 
 " Take them to your wife with my compliments, and tell 
 her that I wish her joy of an honest husband." 
 
 Gordon took the unexpected favor, and without speaking, 
 turned hastily from the grocer and walked away. 
 
 Behind that frowning Providence 
 He hid a smiling face," 
 
 said Mrs. Gordon, with tearful eyes, when her husband 
 presented her the sugar and tea, and repeated what the 
 grocer had said. 
 
 " Yes. It was a blessing sent to us in disguise," re 
 turned Gordon. " How little do we know of the good or 
 ill that lies in our immediate future !" 
 
 " Do not say ill, dear husband only seeming ill ; if we 
 think right and do right. When God makes our future, all 
 is good ; the ill is of our own procuring." 
 
 " Right, Mary. I see that truth as clear as if a sunbeam 
 shone upon it." 
 
 "Time, Faith, Energy!" murmured Gordon to himself, 
 as he lay awake that night, thinking of the future. Before 
 losing himself in sleep, he had made up his mind to go to 
 another creditor for a small amount, and see if he could not 
 make a similar arrangement with him to the one entered into 
 with the grocer. The man demurred a little, and then said 
 he would take time to think about it. When Gordon called 
 again, he declined the proposition, and said he had sold 
 his goods for money, not for work. 
 
 " But I have no money," replied Gordon. 
 
 " I'll wait awhile and see," returned the man, in a way 
 and with a significance that fretted the mind of Gordon. 
 
 " He'll wait until he sees me getting a little ahead, and 
 then pounce down upon me like a hawk upon his prey." 
 
 Over this idea the reformed man worried himself, and 
 went home to his wife unhappy and dispirited. 
 
 " I owe at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred dol 
 lars," he said ; " and there is no hope of inducing all of
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 85 
 
 those to whom money is due to wait until we can pay them 
 with comfort to ourselves. I shall be tormented to death, 
 I see that plain enough." 
 
 " Don't you look at the dark side, Henry ?" replied his 
 wife to this. " I think you do. You owe some eight or 
 ten persons, and one of them has asked you for what was 
 due. You offered to work out the debt, and he accepted 
 your offer. To another who has not asked you, you go 
 and make the same offer, which he declines, preferring to 
 wait for the money. There is nothing so really discouraging 
 in all thisj I am sure. If he prefers waiting, let him wait. 
 No doubt it will be the same to us in the end. As to our 
 getting much ahead or many comforts around us until our 
 debts are settled off, we might as well not think of that. 
 We will feel better to pay what we owe as fast as we earn 
 it ; and, more than that, it will put the temptation to dis 
 tress us in nobody's way. If one man won't let you work 
 out your debt, why another will. I've no doubt that two- 
 thirds of your creditors will be glad to avail themselves of 
 the offer." 
 
 Thus re-assured, Gordon felt better. On the next day 
 he tried a third party to whom he owed fifteen dollars. 
 This man happened to keep a retail grocery and liquor store. 
 That is, he had a bar at one counter, and sold groceries 
 at the other. Two-thirds of the debt was for liquor. 
 
 " I want to wipe off that old score of mine, if I can, Mr. 
 King," said Gordon, as he met the storekeeper at his own 
 door. 
 
 " That's clever," replied Mr. King. " Walk in. What 
 will you take ? Some brandy ?" 
 
 And Mr. King stepped behind the counter and laid his 
 hand upon a decanter. 
 
 " Nothing at all, I thank you," replied Gordon quickly. 
 
 " Why how's that? Have you sworn off?" 
 
 " Yes. I've joined the temperance society." 
 
 The storekeeper shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I didn't expect that of you, Gordon. I thought you 
 were too fond of a little creature comfort." 
 
 " I ruined myself and beggared my family by drink, if 
 that is what you mean by creature comfort. Poor comfort 
 it was for my wife and children, to say nothing of my own 
 case, which was, Heaven knows, bad enough. But I 
 
 11
 
 86 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 have come to talk to you about paying off that old score. 
 Now that I've given up drinking, I want to try and be 
 honest if I can." 
 
 " That's right. I like to see a man, when he sets out 
 to be decent, go the whole figure. Have you got the 
 money ?" 
 
 " No. I wish I had. I have no money and not half 
 work ; but I have time on my hands, Mr. King." 
 
 " Time ? That is what some people call money. You 
 want to pay me in time, instead of money, I presume ? 
 Rather rich, that, Gordon ! But time don't pass current, 
 like money, in these diggins, my friend. There are a 
 plenty who come here and throw it away for nothing. I 
 can get more than I want." 
 
 "I have no wish to throw my time away, nor to pass it 
 upon you for money, Mr. King. What I want is, to ren 
 der you some service in other words, to work for you, if 
 you can give me something to do. I have time on my 
 hands unemployed, and I wish to turn it to some good 
 account." 
 
 " 0, yes. I understand now. Very well, Gordon ; I 
 rather think I can meet your views. Yesterday my bar 
 keeper was sent to prison for getting into a scrape while 
 drunk, and I want his place supplied until he gets out. 
 Come and tend bar for me a couple of weeks, and I will 
 give you a receipt in full of all demands." 
 
 Gordon shook his head and looked grave. 
 
 " What's the matter? Won't you do it ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I can't do that." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because I have sworn neither to taste, touch, nor 
 handle the accursed thing. Neither to drink it myself, nor 
 put it to the lips of another. No, no, Mr. King, I can't do 
 that. But I will sell your groceries for you three days in 
 the week, for four weeks. Part of my time is already 
 regularly engaged. " 
 
 " Go off about your business ! " said the store-keeper, his 
 face red with anger at the language of the reformed man, 
 which he was pleased to consider highly insulting. " I'll 
 s,ee to collecting that bill in a different way from that." 
 
 By this time Gordon was learning not to be frightened and 
 discouraged at every thing. His wife had so often showed
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 87 
 
 him its folly, that he felt ashamed to go to her again in a 
 desponding mood, and therefore cheered himself up before 
 going home. 
 
 In other quarters he found rather better success. Not 
 all of those he owed were of the stamp of the two to whom 
 application had last been made. In less than six months 
 he had worked out nearly a hundred dollars of what he 
 owed, and had regular employment that brought him in 
 six dollars every week, besides earning, by odd jobs and 
 light porterage, from two to three dollars. His wife rarely 
 let a week go without producing her one or two dollars by 
 needle-work. Little comforts gradually crept in, notwith 
 standing all their debts were not yet paid off. This was 
 inevitable. 
 
 By the end of twelve months Gordon found himself clear 
 of debt, and in a good situation in a store at five hundred 
 dollars a year. 
 
 " So much for ' Time, Faith, Energy,' " he said to him 
 self, as he walked backwards and forwards, in his com 
 fortable little home, one evening, thinking of the incidents 
 of the year, and the results that had followed. "I would 
 not have believed it. Scarcely a twelvemonth has passed, 
 and here am I, a sober man and out of debt." 
 
 " Though still very far from the advanced position in the 
 world you held a few years ago, and to which you can 
 never more attain," said a desponding voice within him. 
 " A man never has but one chance for attaining ease and 
 competence in this life. If he neglects that, he need not 
 waste his time in any useless struggles." 
 
 " Time, Faith, Energy !" spoke out another voice. " If 
 one year has done so much for you, what will not five, ten, 
 or twenty years do ? Redouble your energies, have con 
 fidence in the future, and time will make all right." 
 
 " I will have faith in time ; I will have energy !" re 
 sponded the man in Gordon, speaking aloud. 
 
 Fron that time Gordon and his wife lived with even 
 stricter economy than before, in order to lay by a little 
 money with which he could, at some future time, re-com 
 mence his own business, which was profitable. There was 
 still only a single shop in town, and that was the one owned 
 by his old employer, who had, in fact, built himself up on
 
 88 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 his downfall, when he took to drinking and neglecting his 
 business. On less than a thousand dollars Gordon did not 
 think of commencing business. Less than that he knew 
 would make the effort a doubtful one. This amount he 
 expected to save in about five years. 
 
 Two years of this time had elapsed, and Gordon had 
 four hundred dollars invested and bearing interest. He 
 still held his situation at five hundred dollars per annum. 
 The only shop yet established in the town for doing the 
 work for which he was qualified both as a journeyman and 
 master workman, was that owned and still carried on by 
 his old employer, who had made a good deal of money ; 
 but who had, of late, fallen into habits of dissipation and 
 neglected his business. 
 
 One evening, while Gordon was reading at home in his 
 comfortable little sitting-room, with his wife beside him 
 engaged with her needle, and both feeling very contented, 
 there was a rap at the door. On opening it Gordon re 
 cognized Mr. Evenly, and politely invited him to come in. 
 After being seated, his old employer, who showed too 
 plainly the debasing signs of frequent intoxication, said 
 
 "Gordon, what are you doing now?" 
 
 The reformed man stated the nature of his occupation. 
 
 " What salary do you receive?" asked Evenly. 
 
 " Five hundred dollars a year." 
 
 ".Do you like your present employment?" 
 
 " Yes, very well. It is lighter than my old business, 
 and much cleaner." 
 
 " Would you be willing to come to work for me again?" 
 further inquired Evenly. 
 
 " I don't know that I would. My present situation is 
 permanent, my employer a very pleasant man, and my 
 work easy." 
 
 "Three things that are very desirable, certainly. But 
 I'll tell you what I want, and what I will give you. Per 
 haps we can make a bargain. There is no man in town 
 who understands our business better than you do. That I 
 am free to admit. Heretofore I have been my own mana 
 ger ; but I am satisfied that it will be for my interest to 
 have a competent foreman in my establishment. If I can 
 find one to suit me I will give him liberal wages. You
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 89 
 
 will do exactly ; and if you will take charge of my shop, T 
 will make your wages fifteen dollars a week. What do 
 you say to that?" 
 
 " I rather think," replied Gordon, " that I will accept 
 your offer. Five dollars a week advance in wages for a 
 poor man is a consideration not lightly to be passed by." 
 
 " It is not, certainly," remarked Evenly. " Then I may 
 consider it settled that you will take charge of my shop." 
 " Yes. I believe I needn't hesitate about the matter." 
 So the arrangement was made, and Gordon went back 
 to the shop as foreman, from which he had been dis 
 charged as a journeyman three years before. 
 
 Firmly bent upon commencing the business for himself, 
 whenever he should feel himself able to do so, Gordon con 
 tinued his frugal mode of living for two years longer, when 
 the amount of his savings, interest and all added, was very 
 nearly fifteen hundred dollars. The time had now come 
 for him to take the step he had contemplated for four 
 years. Evenly received the announcement with undis 
 guised astonishment. After committing to such competent 
 hands the entire manufacturing part of his business, he had 
 given himself up more and more to dissipation. Had it not 
 been for the active and energetic manner in which the 
 affairs of the shop were conducted by Gordon, every thing 
 would have fallen into disorder. But in a fair ratio with 
 the neglect of his principal was he efficient as his agent. 
 
 " I can't let you go," said Evenly, when Gordon in 
 formed him of his intention to go into business for himself. 
 " If fifteen dollars a week doesn't satisfy you, you shall 
 have twenty." 
 
 " It is not the wages," replied Gordon. " I wish to go 
 into business for myself. From the first this has been my 
 intention." 
 
 "But you hav'n't the capital." 
 
 " Yes. I have fifteen hundred dollars." 
 
 " You have !" 
 
 " Yes. I have saved it in four years. That will give 
 rne a fair start. I am not afraid for the rest." 
 
 Evenly felt well satisfied that if Gordon went into 'busi 
 ness for himself, his own would be ruined, and therefore, 
 finding all efforts to dissuade him from his purpose of no
 
 90 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 
 
 avail, he offered to take him in as a partner. But to this 
 came an unexpected objection. Gordon was averse to 
 such a connection. Being pressed to state the reason why, 
 he frankly said 
 
 " My unwillingness to enter into business with you 
 arises from the fact that you are, as I was four years ago, 
 a slave to strong drink. You are not yourself one half of 
 the time, and hardly ever in a fit condition to attend to 
 business. Pardon me for saying this. But you asked for 
 my reason, and I have given it." 
 
 Evenly, at first, was angry. But reflection soon came, 
 and then he felt humiliated as he had never felt before. 
 There was no intention on the part of Gordon to insult 
 him, nor to triumph over him, but rather a feeling of sor 
 row ; and this Evenly saw. 
 
 " And this is your only objection ?" he at length said. 
 
 " I have none other," replied Gordon. 
 
 " If it did not exist you would meet my proposals ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " Then it shall no longer exist. From this hour I will 
 be as free from the vice you have named as you are." 
 
 " Will you sign the pledge?" 
 
 " Yes, this very hour." 
 
 And he did so. 
 
 A year afterwards an old friend, who had joined the 
 temperance ranks about the time Gordon did, and who had 
 only got along moderately well, passed the establishment 
 of EVENLY & GORDON, and saw the latter standing in the 
 door. 
 
 " Are you in this concern ?" he asked, in some sur 
 prise. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And making money fast ?" 
 
 " We are doing very well." 
 
 " Gordon, I don't understand this altogether. I tried to 
 recover myself, but soon got discouraged, and have ever 
 since plodded along in a poor way. I live, it is true ; but 
 you are doing much better than that. What is vour se 
 cret?" 
 
 " It lies in three words," replied Gordon. 
 
 " Name them."
 
 TIME, FAITH, ENERGY. 91 
 
 "Time, Faith, Energy!" 
 
 The man looked startled for a moment, and then walked 
 away wiser than when he asked the question. Whether 
 he will profit by the answer we cannot tell. Others may, 
 if they will. 

 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 " WASN'T that Ernestine Lee that we passed this mo 
 ment V asked Harvey Lane, a young M. D., of his friend 
 James Everett, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "Yes, I believe it was " Everett returned, rather 
 coldly. 
 
 " You believe it was ! Surely, James, nothing has occur 
 red to destroy the intimacy that has for some time exist 
 ed between you." 
 
 " You saw that we did not speak." 
 I did." 
 
 " And, probably, shall never be on terms . of friendship 
 again." 
 
 4< What you say pains me very much, James. Of course 
 there is a reason for so great a change. May I ask what 
 it is?" 
 
 " It is, no doubt, a good deal my own fault. But still, 
 I cannot help thinking that she has taken offence too sud 
 denly, where no offence was intended. You know that I 
 have been long paying attentions to her 7" 
 "Yes." 
 
 " If I remember rightly, I told you last week, that my 
 intentions towards her were of a serious character. In 
 a word, that I had fully made up my mind to ask her 
 hand in marriage." 
 
 " O, yes, I remember it very well. And that is the 
 reason why I felt so much surprised at seeing you pass 
 each other, without speaking." 
 
 " Well, a few evenings ago, I called, as usual, intend 
 ing, if a good opportunity offered, to make known my 
 true feelings towards her. Unfortunately, I had dined out 
 that day with some young friends. We sat late at table, 
 and when I left, I was a little flushed with wine. It was 
 a very little, for you know that I can drink pretty freely 
 without its being seen. But, somehow, or other, I was 
 more elated than is usual with me on such occasions, and 
 
 (92)
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 93 
 
 when I called on Ernestine, felt as free and easy as if 
 everything was settled, and we were to be married in a 
 week. For a time, we chatted together very pleasantly ; 
 then I asked her to play and sing for me. She went to 
 the piano, at my request, and played and sung two or 
 three very sweet airs. I don't know which it was that 
 elated my feelings so much the wine, or the delightful 
 music. Certain it is, that at the conclusion of a piece, I 
 was in such rapture, that I threw my arms around her 
 neck, drew back her head, and kissed her with emphatic 
 earnestness." 
 
 " Why, James !" 
 
 " You may well be surprised at the commission of so 
 rude and ungentlemanly an act. But, as I have said, / 
 was flushed with wine" 
 
 " How did Ernestine act ?" 
 
 " She was, of course, deeply indignant at the unwar 
 rantable liberty. Springing from the piano-stool, her face 
 crimsoned over, she drew herself up with a dignified air, 
 and ordered me instantly to leave her presence. I 
 attempted to make an apology, but she would not hear a 
 word. I have since written to her, but my letter has been 
 returned unopened." 
 
 " Really, that is unfortunate," the friend of Everett 
 said, with concern. " Ernestine is a girl whom any man 
 might be proud to gain as a wife. And, besides her per 
 sonal qualifications, a handsome fortune will go with her 
 hand." 
 
 " I know all that too well, Harvey. Fool that I have 
 been, to mar such prospects as were mine ! But she must 
 have known that I was not myself and ought to have 
 charged the fault upon the wine, and not upon me." 
 
 " Such a discrimination is not usually made." 
 
 "I know that it is not. And for not making it in my 
 case, I certainly cannot help blaming Ernestine a little. 
 She must have known, that, had I not been flushed with 
 wine, I never would have taken the liberty with her that 
 I did. As it is, however, I am not only pained at the 
 consequences of my foolishness, but deeply mortified at 
 my conduct." 
 
 " Is there no hope of a reconciliation ?" 
 
 " I do not think there is any. If she had accepted my
 
 94 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 written apology for the act, there would have been some 
 hope. But me fact of her returning my letter unopened, 
 is conclusive as to the permanency of the breach. I can 
 now make no further advances." 
 
 " Truly, it is mortifying !" the friend remarked. Then, 
 after a pause, he added, with emphasis 
 
 " What fools this wine does make of us, sometimes !" 
 
 "Doesn't it? Another such a circumstance as this, 
 would almost drive me to join a temperance society." 
 
 " O, no, hardly that, James." 
 
 " Well, perhaps not. But, at least, to eschew wine 
 for ever." 
 
 "Wine is good enough in its place; but, like fire, is 
 rather a bad master. Like you, I have injured my pros 
 pects in life by an over-indulgence in the pleasures of the 
 cup." 
 
 " You ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When did that happen ?" 
 
 " Since I last saw you." 
 
 " Indeed ! I am sorry to hear you say so. But how 
 was it ? tell me." 
 
 " You know, that as a young physician, I shall have to 
 struggle on in this city for years before I can rise to any 
 degree of distinction, unless aided by some fortunate cir 
 cumstance, that shall be as a stepping-stone upon which 
 to elevate me, and enable me to gain the public eye. I 
 am conscious that I have mastered thoroughly the prin 
 ciples of my profession and that, in regard to surgery, 
 particularly, I possess a skill not surpassed by many who 
 have handled the knife for years. Of this fact, my surgi 
 cal teacher, who is my warm friend, is fully aware. At 
 every important case that he has, I am desired to be pre 
 sent, and assist in the operation, and once or twice, where 
 there were no friends of the patient to object, I have been 
 permitted to perform the operation myself, and always 
 with success. In this department of my profession, I feel 
 great confidence in myself and it is that part of it, in 
 which I take the most interest." 
 
 " And in which, I doubt not, you will one day be dis 
 tinguished." 
 
 " I trust so; and yet, things look dark enough just now.
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 95 
 
 But to go on. A few days ago, I dined with some friends. 
 After dinner, the bottle was circulated pretty freely, and 
 I drank as freely as the rest, but was not aware of hav 
 ing taken enough to produce upon me any visible effects. 
 It was about an hour after the table had been cleared for 
 the wine, that an unusually loud ringing of the door-bell 
 attracted our attention. In a few moments after, I heard 
 a voice asking, in hurried tones, for Doctor Lane. Going 
 down at once to the hall, I found old Mr. Camper there, 
 the rich merchant, in a state of great agitation. 
 
 "'Doctor,' said he, grasping my arm, 'a most terri 
 ble accident has happened to my daughter ! thrown from 
 a carriage ! My physician cannot be found, and as I 
 have often heard your skill warmly alluded to by him, I 
 desire your instant attendance. My carriage is at the 
 door Come along with me, quickly.' 
 
 "Catching up my hat, I attended him at once, and 
 during our rapid drive to his princely residence, learned 
 that his only daughter had been thrown from a carriage, 
 and dreadfully injured ; but in what way, could not ascer 
 tain. Unaccountably to myself, I found my mind all in 
 confusion, and, strange, unprofessional omission ! forgot 
 to request that I be driven first to my office for my case 
 of instruments. We had not proceeded half the distance 
 to Mr. Camper's residence, before I noticed that the old 
 man became silent, and that his eye was fixed upon me 
 with a steady, scrutinizing gaze. This added to the con 
 fusion of mind which I felt. At length the carriage stop 
 ped, and I accompanied Mr. Camper to his daughter's 
 chamber, hurriedly, and in silence. As I paused by the 
 bed upon which she lay, I again noticed that he was 
 regarding me with a steady searching look, and an ex 
 pression of face that I did not like, and could not under 
 stand. 
 
 " I proceeded, however, at once, to examine the con 
 dition of my patient, who lay in a kind of stupor. There 
 was a deep gash on the side of her face, from which the 
 blood had issued profusely. By the aid of warm-water, 
 I soon cleared the wound from a mass of coagulated 
 blood that had collected around it, and was glad to find 
 that it was not a serious one. I then proceeded to 
 examine if there were any fractures. All this time my
 
 96 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 hands were unsteady, my face burned, and my mind was 
 confused. / was conscious that I had taken too much 
 wine. 
 
 " There is no apparent injury here,' I at length said, 
 after examining the arms and chest. She is probably 
 only stunned by the concussion.' 
 
 " ' But she could not stand on her feet when first lifted 
 after the fall, and fainted immediately upon attempting to 
 sustain her own weight,' Mr. Camper replied. 
 
 " I then made further examination, and found sad indi 
 cations of her fall, in a fractured patella. The knee 
 was, however, so swollen, that I could not ascertain the 
 nature, nor extent of the fracture. 
 
 " ' What do you find the matter there, doctor 1' Mr. 
 Camper asked, after I had finished my examination. 
 
 "'A very serious injury, sir, I am sorry to say,' was 
 my reply. 
 
 " ' Of what nature V was his somewhat stern inquiry. 
 
 " ' Her knee-pan is fractured, sir ; but so much swollen, 
 that I cannot, now, fully ascertain the extent of the 
 injury.' " 
 
 " Henry !" cried the old man in a quick, eager tone to 
 
 an attendant, "go again for doctor L ; and if he is 
 
 not in, go for doctor R ; and if you cannot find him, 
 
 call on doctor T , and ask him to come instantly." 
 
 The attendant hurriedly departed, when Mr. Campei 
 turned slowly towards me, with a mingled expression of 
 anger, pain, and contempt, upon his face, and said, in a 
 Stern voice, 
 
 " ' Go home young man ! and quit drinking wine, or 
 quit the profession ! You are in no fit state to undertake 
 a case like this.' 
 
 " It came upon me like a peal of thunder from an un 
 clouded summer sky. It was the knell of newly-awaken 
 ed hopes the darkening of newly-opening prospects. 
 Silently I turned away under the cutting rebuke, and left 
 the house." 
 
 " Really, that was most unfortunate !" his friend Everett 
 remarked, with earnest sympathy. 
 
 " Could anything have been more unfortunate, or more 
 mortifying. Her case was one that I fully understood ; 
 and could have treated successfully. It would have
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 97 
 
 brought me into contact with the family for six months, 
 or more, and the eclat which I should have derived from 
 the case, would have given me a prominence as a young 
 surgeon, that I am afraid the fact of my losing the case 
 under such mortifying circumstances, will prevent me 
 ever attaining in this city." 
 
 " Really, Harvey, I do feel exceedingly pained at what 
 you have told me. Confound this wine ! I believe it does 
 more harm than good." 
 
 " Too free an indulgence of it does, no doubt. Our 
 error has lain in this. We must be more prudent in 
 future." 
 
 " Suppose we swear off for ever from touching it." 
 
 " No, I will not do that. Wine is good in its place, and 
 I shall continue to use it, but more moderately. A phy 
 sician never knows the moment he may be called upon, 
 and should, therefore, always be in a state to exercise a 
 clear head and a steady hand." 
 
 " Certainly, we have both of us had lessons not soon to 
 be forgotten," was the reply; and then the two young men 
 separated. 
 
 Two weeks from the day this conversation took place, 
 doctor Lane and his friend James Everett met at a sup 
 per-party, where all kinds of liquors were introduced, and 
 every kind of inducement held out for the company to 
 drink freely. Both of the young men soon forgot their 
 resolutions to be guarded in respect to the use of wine. 
 As the first few glasses began to take effect, in an eleva 
 tion of spirits, each felt a kind of pride in the thought 
 that he could bear as much as any one there, and not 
 show signs of intoxication. 
 
 By eleven o'clock, there was not one at the table who 
 was not drunk enough to be foolish. The rational and 
 intelligent conversation that had been introduced early in 
 the evening, had long since given place to the obscene 
 jest the vulgar story or the bacchanalian song. Gay 
 est of the gay were our young men, who had already, 
 one would think, received sufficient lessons of prudence 
 and temperance. 
 
 " Take care, James !" cried Lane, across the table to 
 his friend Everett, familiarly, late in the evening. " You
 
 98 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 are pouring the wine on the table, instead of in your 
 glass." 
 
 "You are beginning to see double," was Everett's 
 reply, lifting his head with a slight drunken air, and 
 throwing a half-angry glance upon his friend. 
 
 " That is more than you can do," was the retort, with 
 a meaning toss of the head. 
 
 I don't understand you," Everett said, pausing with 
 the decanter still in his hand, and eyeing his friend, 
 steadily. 
 
 " Don't you, indeed ! You see yourself in a state of 
 blessed singleness ha! Do you take?" 
 
 " Look here, James, you are my friend. But there 
 are things that I will not allow even a friend to utter. So 
 take care now !" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! There comes the raw. Do I rub too hard, 
 my boy ?' 
 
 " You 're drunk, and a fool into the bargain !" was the 
 angry retort of Everett. 
 
 "Not so drunk as you were when you hugged and 
 kissed Ernestine Lee ! How do you like ?" 
 
 Lane could not finish the sentence, before the decanter 
 which Everett had held in his hand glanced past his head 
 with fearful velocity, and was dashed into fragments 
 against the wall behind him. The instant interference of 
 friends prevented any further acts of violence. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock on the next morning that 
 young doctor Lane sat in his office, musing on the events 
 of the previous night, of which he had only a confused 
 recollection, when a young man entered, and presented a 
 note. On opening it, he found it to be a challenge from 
 Everett. 
 
 " Leave me your card, and I will refer my friend to 
 you," was his reply, with a cold bow, as he finished read 
 ing the note. 
 
 The card was left, and the stranger, with a frigid bow 
 in return, departed. 
 
 " Fool, fool that I have been !'' ejaculated Lane, rising 
 to his feet, and pacing the floor of his office backwards 
 and forwards with hurried steps. This was continued 
 for nearly half an hour, during which time his counte 
 nance wore a painful and gloomy expression. At last,
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 99 
 
 pausing, and seating himself at a table, he murmured, as 
 he lifted a pen, 
 
 " It is too late now for vain regrets." 
 
 He then wrote a note with a hurried air, and dispatch 
 ed it by an attendant. This done, he again commenced 
 pacing the floor of his office, but now with slower steps, 
 and a face expressive of sad determination. In about 
 twenty minutes a young man entered, saying, as he did 
 so 
 
 " I 'm here at a word, Harvey and now what is this 
 important business which I can do for you, and for which 
 you are going to be so everlastingly obliged ?" 
 
 " That will tell you," Lane briefly said, handing him 
 the challenge he had received. 
 
 The young man's face turned pale as he read the note. 
 
 " Bless me, Harvey !" he ejaculated, as he threw the 
 paper upon the table. " This is a serious matter, truly ! 
 Why how have you managed to offend Everett? I 
 always thought that you were friends of the warmest 
 kind." 
 
 " So we have been, until now. And at this moment, I 
 have not an unkind thought towards him, notwithstanding 
 he threw a bottle of wine at my head last night, which, 
 had it taken effect, would have, doubtless, killed me in 
 stantly." 
 
 " How in the world did that happen, doctor ?" 
 
 " We were both flushed with wine, at the time. I said 
 something that I ought not to have said something which 
 had I been myself, I would have cut off my right hand 
 before I would have uttered and it roused him into 
 instant passion." 
 
 " And not satisfied with throwing the bottle of wine at 
 your head, he now sends you a challenge ?" 
 
 " Yes. And I must accept it, notwithstanding I have 
 no angry feelings against him ; and, but for the hasty step 
 he has now taken, would have most willingly asked his 
 pardon." 
 
 " That, of course, is out of the question now," the friend 
 replied. "But I will see his second; and endeavour, 
 through him, to bring about a reconciliation, if I can do 
 so, honourably, to yourself." 
 
 " As to that," replied Lane, " I have nothing to say
 
 100 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 If he insists upon a meeting, I will give him the satisfac 
 tion he seeks." 
 
 It was about half an hour after, that the friend of Lane 
 called upon the friend of Everett. They were old ac 
 quaintances. 
 
 " You represent Everett, I believe, in this unpleasant 
 affair between him and doctor Lane," the latter said. 
 
 " I do," was the grave reply. 
 
 " Surely we can prevent a meeting !" the friend of Lane 
 said, with eagerness. 
 
 " I do not see how," was the reply. 
 
 " They were flushed with wine when the provocation 
 occurred, and this ought to prevent a fatal meeting. If 
 Lane insulted Everett, it was because he was not himself 
 Had he been perfectly sober, he would never have uttered 
 an offensive word." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But with that I have nothing to do. 
 He has insulted my friend, and that friend asks a meet 
 ing. He can do no less than grant it or prove himself 
 a coward." 
 
 " I really cannot see the necessity that this should fol 
 low," urged the other. " It seems to me, that it is in our 
 power to prevent any hostile meeting." 
 
 " HOW r 
 
 "By representing to the principals in this unhappy 
 affair, the madness of seeking each other's lives. You 
 can learn from Everett what kind of an apology, if any, 
 will satisfy him, and then I can ascertain whether such 
 an apology will be made." 
 
 " You can do what you please in that way," the friend 
 of Everett replied. "But I am not disposed to transcend 
 my office. Besides, I know that, as far as Everett is con 
 cerned, no apology will be accepted. The insult was 
 outrageous, involving a breach of confidence, and refer 
 ring to a subject of the most painful, mortifying, and deli 
 cate nature." 
 
 " I am really sorry to hear that both you and your 
 friend are determined to push this matter to an issue, for 
 I had hoped that an adjustment of the difficulty would be 
 easy." 
 
 " No adjustment can possibly take place. Doctor Lane 
 must fight, or be posted as a coward, and a scoundrel."
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 101 
 
 " He holds himself ready to give Mr. Everett all the 
 satisfaction he requires," was the half-indignant reply. 
 
 " Then, of course, you are prepared to name the 
 weapons ; and the time and place of meeting ?" 
 
 " I am not. For so confident did I feel that it would 
 only be necessary to see you to have all difficulties put in 
 a train for adjustment, that I did not confer upon the sub 
 ject of the preliminaries of the meeting. But I will seo 
 you again, in the course of an hour, when I shall be ready 
 to name them." 
 
 " If you please." And then the seconds parted. 
 
 " I am afraid this meeting will take place in spite of all 
 that I can do," the friend of doctor Lane said, on return 
 ing after his interview with Everett's second. "The pro 
 vocation which you gave last night is felt to be so great, 
 that no apology can atone for it." 
 
 " My blood probably will, and he can have that !" 
 was the gloomy reply. 
 
 A troubled silence ensued, which was at last broken by 
 the question, 
 
 " Have you decided, doctor, upon the weapons to be 
 used ?" 
 
 " Pistols, I suppose," was the answer. 
 
 " Have you practised much ?" 
 
 " Me ! No. I don't know that I ever fired a pistol in 
 my life." 
 
 " But Everett is said to be a good shot." 
 
 " So much the worse for me. That is all." 
 
 " You have the liberty of choosing some other weapon. 
 One with which you are familiar." 
 
 " I am familiar with no kind of deadly weapons." 
 
 " Then you will stand a poor chance, my friend ; unless 
 you name the day of meeting next week, and practise a 
 good deal in the meantime." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing. Do you suppose, that if I 
 fight with Everett, I shall try to kill him 1 No. I would 
 not hurt a hair of his head. I am no murderer !" 
 
 " Then you go out under the existence of a fatal 
 inequality." 
 
 I cannot help that. It is my misfortune. I did not 
 
 send the challenge." 
 
 13
 
 102 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 " That is no reason why you should not make an effort 
 to preserve your own life." 
 
 " If we both fire at once, and both of our balls take 
 effect, the fact that my ball strikes him will not benefit 
 me any. And suppose he should be killed, and I survive, 
 do you think I could ever know a single hour's happiness ? 
 No no I choose the least of t#o evils. I must fight. 
 But I will not kill." 
 
 " In this you are determined ?" 
 
 " I certainly am. I have weighed the matter well, and 
 come to a positive decision." 
 
 " You choose pistols, then ?" 
 
 " Yes. Let the weapons be pistols." 
 
 " When shall the meeting take place ?" 
 
 " Let it be to-morrow morning, at sunrise. The quicker 
 it is over, the better." 
 
 This determined upon, the friend went again to the 
 second of Everett, and completed all necessary arrange 
 ments for the duel. 
 
 It was midnight, and young doctor Lane sat alone in 
 his chamber, beside a table, upon which were ink and 
 paper. He had, evidently, made several attempts to 
 write, and each time failed from some cause to accom 
 plish his task. Several sheets of paper had been written 
 upon, and thrown aside. Each of these bore the follow 
 ing words : 
 
 '"My Dear Parents: When these lines are read by 
 you, the hand that penned them will be cold and nerve 
 less ." 
 
 Thus far the unhappy young man could go, but no 
 farther. Imagination pictured too vividly the heart- 
 stricken father who had so often looked down upon him 
 when a boy with pride and pleasure, and the tender, but 
 now agonized mother, as that appalling announcement 
 met their eyes. 
 
 Again, for the fifth time, he took up his pen, murmur 
 ing in a low tone, yet with a resolute air, 
 
 " It must be done !" 
 
 He had again written the words : 
 
 " My Dear Parents " 
 
 When his ear caught the sound of steps, strangely 
 familiar to his ear, ascending the stairs, and approaching
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 103 
 
 his chamber. He paused, and listened with a heart 
 almost stilled in its pulsations. In a brief space, the door 
 of his room opened, and a grey-haired, feeble old man 
 came slowly in. 
 
 " My father !" exclaimed Harvey, starting to his feet, 
 in astonishment scarcely, for the moment, being able to 
 realize whether it were indeed his father, or, only an ap 
 parition. 
 
 " Thank heaven ! that I have found my son alive " 
 ejaculated the old man, uncovering his head, and lifting 
 his eyes upward. " O, Harvey, my child !" he then said, 
 with an earnest pathos, that touched the young man's 
 heart " how could you so far forget us as to think even 
 for a single moment of the dreadful act you are preparing 
 to commit?" 
 
 " I had hoped to be spared this severest trial of all," 
 the young man said, rising and grasping the hand of his 
 father, while the tears sprang to his eyes. " What offici 
 ous friend has taken the pains to disturb both your peace 
 and mine dragging you thus away from your home, in 
 the vain effort to prevent an act that must take place." 
 
 " Speak not so rashly, my son ! It cannot, it must not, 
 it shall not take place !" 
 
 " I have no power to prevent it, father." 
 
 " You are a free agent." 
 
 " Not to do a deed of dishonour, or, rather, I am not 
 free to suffer dishonour." 
 
 " There is no honour in wantonly risking or taking 
 life, Harvey." 
 
 " I insulted a friend, in the grossest manner." 
 
 " That was dishonourable. But why did you insult 
 him 1" 
 
 " I was flushed with wine." 
 
 The old man shook his head, sadly. 
 
 " I know it was wrong, father. But it can't be helped 
 now. Well, as I said, I insulted him, and he has demand 
 ed satisfaction. Can I do less than give it to him ?" 
 
 " If you insulted him, you can apologize. And, from 
 what I know of James Everett, he will at once forgive." 
 
 " I cannot do that now, father. He threw a bottle of 
 wine at my head, and then precipitately challenged me. 
 I owe at least something to myself."
 
 104 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 " And something, I should think, to your mother, if not 
 to me," replied the old man,, bitterly. " How, think you 
 she will receive the news of your death, if the combat 
 should terminate fatally for you ? Or, how, if your hands 
 should become stained with the blood of your friend ?" 
 
 " Talk not thus, father ! Talk not thus !" ejaculated the 
 young man, rising up quickly, and beginning to pace the 
 floor of his chamber with hurried steps. " Is not my 
 situation dreadful enough viewed in any light? Then why 
 seek to agonize my heart with what I would gladly forget? 
 I arn already racked with tortures that can scarcely be 
 endured why seek to run my cup of misery over?" 
 
 " I seek but to save you, my child," the father replied, 
 in a voice that suddenly became low and tremulous. 
 
 " It is a vain effort. There is but one course for me, 
 and that is to go on, and meet whatever consequences 
 ensue. The result may not be so bad as feared." 
 
 " Harvey !" old Mr. Lane said, in a voice that had 
 somewhat regained its steadiness of tone. " This meet 
 ing must not take place. If you persist in going out to 
 morrow morning, I must take measures to prevent it." 
 
 " And thus dishonour your son." 
 
 " All dishonour that will appertain to you, Harvey, ap 
 pertains to you now. You insulted your friend. Neither 
 your death nor his can atone for that offence. If repara 
 tion be truly made, it will come in some other form." 
 
 " It is vain to urge that matter with me," was the reply 
 to this. " I must give James Everett the satisfaction he 
 requires to-morrow morning. And now, father, if I should 
 fall, which heaven forbid for others' sakes more than my 
 own," and the young man's voice quivered, " break the 
 matter to my mother as gently as possible tell her, that 
 my last thoughts were of her, and my last prayer that 
 she might be given strength from above to bear this heavy 
 affliction." 
 
 ****#* 
 
 It was a damp, drizzly morning, just at break of day, 
 when Harvey Lane, accompanied by his friend, and a 
 young physician, entered a close carriage, and started for 
 the duelling-ground, which had been selected, some four 
 miles from the city. Two neat mahogany cases were 
 taken along, one containing a pair of duelling pistols, and
 
 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 107 
 
 the other a set of surgical instruments. As these were 
 handed in, the eye of Lane rested upon them for a mo 
 ment. They conjured up in his mind no very pleasant 
 thoughts. He was very pale, and silent. Nor did his 
 companions seem in much better condition, or much better 
 spirits. A rapid drive of nearly three quarters of an hour 
 brought them upon the ground. The other party had not 
 yet arrived, but came up in a few minutes afterwards. 
 Then commenced the formal preparations. The ground 
 was measured off ten paces. The seconds prepared the 
 deadly weapons which were to heal the honour that had 
 been so dreadfully wounded, and arranged all the minor 
 provisions of the duel. 
 
 During all this time, neither of the young men looked 
 towards each other, but each paced rapidly over a little 
 space of ground, backwards and forwards, with agitated 
 steps though evidently with an effort to seem com 
 posed. 
 
 "Ready," said Lane's second, at length, close to his 
 ear. 
 
 The young man started, and his cheek blanched to a 
 pale hue. He had been thinking of his father and mo 
 ther. With almost the vividness of reality had he seen 
 them before him, and heard their earnest, tearful plead 
 ings with him to forbear for their sakes, if not for his 
 own. But he took the deadly weapon in his hand me 
 chanically, and moved to the position that had been 
 assigned him. The arrangement was, that the seconds 
 should give the words one two three in slow suc 
 cession, and that the parties should fire as soon after 
 " three" was uttered, as they chose. 
 
 Their positions taken, the young men's eyes met for the 
 first time and for the first time they looked again upon 
 each other's faces. The word one had been given, at 
 which each raised his pistol, two was uttered and then 
 another individual was suddenly, and unexpectedly added 
 to the party, who threw himself in front of Harvey Lane, 
 in range of both the deadly weapons. Turning, then, 
 towards Everett, he said, lifting his hat, and letting his 
 thin grey hairs fall about his forehead 
 
 " We cannot spare our son, yet, James ! We are grow 
 ing old, and he is our only child. If he were taken thus
 
 108 FLUSHED WITH WINE. 
 
 away from us, we should not be able to bear it. For our 
 sakes, then, James, if he has injured you, forgive him." 
 
 Already had the face of his old and long-tried friend, 
 as he met its familiar expression, softened in some degree 
 the feelings of Everett,'and modified the angry vindictive- 
 ness which he still continued to cherish. The apparition 
 of the father, and his unexpected appeal, completely con 
 quered him, and he threw, with a sudden effort, his pistol 
 away some twenty yards. 
 
 " I am satisfied !" he said, in a low tone, advancing, 
 and taking the old man's hand. " You have conquered 
 the vindictive pride of a foolish heart." 
 
 " I know that 'I grossly insulted you, James" Harvey 
 Lane said, coming quickly forward, and offering his hand. 
 " But would I, could I have done it, if I had been my 
 self.?" 
 
 "No, Harvey, you could not! And I was mad and 
 blind that I would not see this" Everett replied, grasp 
 ing the hand of his friend. " We were both flushed with 
 wine, and that made both of us fools. Surely, Harvey, 
 we have had warning enough, of the evil of drinking. 
 Within the last two weeks, it has seriously marred our 
 prospects in life, and now it has brought us out here with 
 the deliberate intent of taking each other's lives." 
 
 " From this hour, I solemnly declare, that I will never 
 again touch, taste, or handle the accursed thing !" Lane 
 said, with strong emphasis. 
 
 " In that resolution I join you," replied Everett, with a 
 like earnest manner. " And let this resolution be the seal 
 ing bond of our perpetual friendship." 
 
 "Amen!" ejaculated Harvey Lane, solemnly, and, 
 "Amen!" responded the old man, fervently, lifting his 
 eyes to Heaven.
 
 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 " JOHN," said a sweet-faced girl, laying her hand fami 
 liarly upon the shoulder of a young man who was seated 
 near a window in deep abstraction of mind. There was 
 something sad in her voice, and her countenance, though 
 lovely, wore an expression of pain., 
 
 " What do you want, sister 1" the young man replied, 
 without lifting his eyes from the floor. 
 
 " You are not happy, brother." 
 
 To this, there was no reply, and an embarrassing pause 
 of some moments ensued. 
 
 " May I speak a word with you, brother 1" the young 
 girl at length said, with a tone and manner that showed 
 her to be compelling herself to the performance of a pain 
 ful and repugnant task. 
 
 " On what subject, Alice ?" the brother asked, looking 
 up with a doubting expression. 
 
 This question brought the colour to Alice's cheeks, and 
 the moisture to her eyes. 
 
 "You know what I would say, John," she at length 
 inade out to utter, in a voice that slightly trembled. 
 
 " How should I know, sister ?" 
 
 " You were not yourself last night, John." 
 
 " Alice !" 
 
 " Forgive me, brother, for what I now say," the maiden 
 rejoined. " It is a painful trial, indeed ; and were it not 
 that I loved you so well were it not that, besides you, 
 there is no one else in the wide world to whom I can look 
 up, I might shrink from a sister's duty. But I feel that it 
 would be wrong for me not to whisper in your ear one 
 warning word wrong not to try a sister's power over 
 you." 
 
 " I will forgive you this time, on one condition," the 
 brother said, in a tone of rebuke, and with a grave ex 
 pression of countenance. 
 
 " What is that ?" asked Alice. 
 
 (109)
 
 110 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 "On condition that you never again, directly or in 
 directly, allude to this subject. It is not in your province 
 to do so. A sister should not look out for her brother's 
 faults." 
 
 A sudden gush of tears followed this cold, half-angry 
 repulse; and then the maiden turned slowly away and 
 left the room. 
 
 John Barclay's anger towards his only sister, who had 
 no one, as she had feelingly said, in the wide world to 
 look up to and love, but him, subsided the moment he saw 
 how deeply his rebuke had wounded her. But he could 
 not speak to her, nor recall his words for the subject she 
 had introduced was one so painful and mortifying, that 
 he could not bear an allusion to it. 
 
 From long indulgence, the habit of drinking had become 
 confirmed in the young man to such a degree that he had 
 almost ceased to resist an inclination that was gaining a 
 dangerous power over him. And yet there was in his 
 mind an abiding resolution one day to break away from 
 this habit. He did not intend to become a drunkard. 
 Oh, no ! The condition of a drunkard was too low and 
 degrading. He could never sink to that ! After awhile, 
 he intended to " swear off," as he called it, and be done 
 -with the seductive poison altogether ; but he had not yet 
 been able to bring so good a resolution into present ac 
 tivity. This being his state of mind conscious of dan 
 ger, and yet unwilling to fly from that danger, he could 
 not bear any allusion to the subject. 
 
 Half an hour, passed in troubled thought, elapsed after 
 this brief interview between the brother and sister, when 
 the young man left the house and took his way, scarcely 
 reflecting upon where he was going, to one of his accus 
 tomed places of resort a fashionable drinking house, 
 where every device that ingenuity could invent, was dis 
 played to attract custom. Splendid mirrors and pictures 
 hung against the walls, affecting the mind with pleasing 
 thoughts and tempting to self-indulgence. There were 
 lounges, where one might recline at ease, while he sipped 
 the delicious compounds the richly furnished bar afford 
 ed, never once dreaming that a serpent lay concealed in 
 the cup that he held to his lips a serpent that one dav 
 would sting him, perhaps unto death !
 
 SWEARING OFF. Ill 
 
 " Regular as clock-work," said an old man, a friend 
 of Barclay's father, who had been dead several years, 
 meeting the young man as he was about to enter the 
 attractive establishment just alluded to. 
 
 " How ?" asked Barclay in a tone of enquiry. 
 
 " Six times a day, John, is too often for you to be seen 
 going into the same drinking-house," said the old man, 
 \vith plain-spoken honesty. 
 
 " You must not talk to me in that way, Mr. Gray," 
 the other rejoined sternly. 
 
 " My respect and regard for the father, will ever cause 
 me to speak plainly to the son when I think him in 
 danger," was Mr. Gray's calm reply. 
 
 " In danger of what, Mr. Gray ?" 
 
 " In danger of shall I utter the word in speaking 
 
 of the son of my old friend, Mr. Barclay 1 Yes ; in 
 danger of drunkenness !" 
 
 " Mr. Gray, I cannot permit any one to speak to me 
 thus." 
 
 " Be not offended at me, John. I utter but the truth." 
 
 " I will not stand to be insulted by any one !" was the 
 young man's angry reply, as he turned suddenly away 
 from his aged friend, and entered the drinking-house. He 
 did not go up at once to the bar, as had been his habit, 
 but threw himself down upon one of the lounges, took up 
 a newspaper, and commenced, or rather, appeared to 
 commence reading, though he did not, in fact, see a 
 letter. 
 
 "What will you have, Mr. Barclay ?" asked an offici 
 ous attendant, coming up, a few moments after he had 
 entered. 
 
 " Nothing just now," was the reply, made in a low tone, 
 while his eyes were not lifted from the newspaper. No 
 very pleasant reflections were those that passed through 
 his mind as he sat there. At last he rose up quickly, as 
 if a resolution had been suddenly formed, and left the 
 place where clustered so many temptations, with a hurri 
 ed step. 
 
 " I want you to administer an oath," he said, entering 
 the office of an Alderman, a few minutes after. 
 
 " Very well, sir. I am ready," replied the Alderman. 
 
 " What is its nature ?" 
 
 14
 
 112 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 " I will give you the form." 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I, John Barclay, do solemnly swear, that for six 
 months from this hour, I will not taste a drop of any 
 kind of liquor that intoxicates." 
 
 " I wouldn't take that oath, young man," the Alderman 
 said. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You had better go and join a temperance society 
 Signing the pledge will be of as much avail." 
 
 "N I will not sign a pledge never to drink again. 
 I 'm not going to make a mere slave of myself. I '11 
 swear off for six months." 
 
 " Why not swear off perpetually, then 1" 
 
 "Because, as I said, I am not going to make a slave 
 of myself. Six months of total-abstinence will give me 
 a control over myself that I do not now possess." 
 
 " I very much fear, sir," urged the Alderman, notwith 
 standing he perceived that the young man was growing 
 impatient " and you must pardon my freedom in saying 
 so, that you will find yourself in error. If you are already 
 so much the slave of drink as to feel yourself compelled 
 to have recourse to the solemnities of an oath to break 
 away from its bewitching power, depend upon it, that no 
 temporary expedient of this kind will be of any avail. 
 You will, no doubt, keep your oath religiously, but when 
 its influence is withdrawn, you will find the strength of 
 an unsupported resolution as weak as ever." 
 
 " I do not believe the position you take to be a true 
 one," argued young Barclay " All I want is to get rid 
 of present temptation, and to be freed from present asso 
 ciations. Six months will place me beyond the reach of 
 these, and then I shall be able to do right from an internal 
 principle, and not from mere external restraint." 
 
 " I see the view you take, and would not urge a word 
 against it, did I not know so many instances of individuals 
 who have vainly opposed their resolutions against the 
 power of habit. When once an appetite for intoxicating 
 drinks has been formed, there is only one way of safety 
 that of taking a perpetual pledge of total-abstinence. 
 That, and that alone is the wall of sure protection.
 
 SWEARING OFF. 113 
 
 Without it, you are exposed to temptations on every hand. 
 The manly and determined effort to be free will not 
 always avail. In some weak and unsuspecting moment, 
 the tempter will steal quietly in, and all will be again 
 lost." 
 
 " It is useless, sir, to argue the point with me," Barclay 
 replied to this. " I will not now take the pledge that is 
 settled. I will take an oath of abstinence for six months. 
 If I can keep to it that long, I can keep from drinking 
 always." 
 
 Seeing that further argument would be useless, the 
 Alderman said no more, but proceeded to administer the 
 oath. The young man then paid the required fee and 
 turned from the office in silence. 
 
 When Alice left the room in tears, stung by the cutting 
 rebuke of her brother, she retired to her chamber with an 
 oppressed and aching heart. She loved him tenderly. 
 They were, sister and brother, alone in the world, and, 
 therefore, her affections clung the closer to him. The 
 struggle had been a hard one in bringing herself to per 
 form the duty which had called down upon her the anger 
 of one for whom she would almost have given her life ; 
 and, therefore, the result was doubly painful, more par 
 ticularly, as it had effected nothing, apparently, towards a 
 change in his habits. 
 
 " But perhaps it will cause him to reflect. If so, I will 
 cheerfully bear his anger," was the consoling thought that 
 passed through her mind, after the passage of an hour, 
 spent under the influence of most painful feelings. 
 
 " O, if he will only be more on his guard," she went 
 on, in thought " if he will only give up that habit, how 
 glad I should be !" 
 
 Just then she heard him enter, and marked the sound 
 of his footsteps as he ascended to his own room, with a 
 fluttering heart. In the course of fifteen or twenty 
 minutes, he went down again, and she listened to observe 
 if he were going out. But he entered the parlours, and 
 then all was, again, quiet. 
 
 For some time Alice debated with herself whether she 
 should go down to him or not, and make the effort to 
 dispel the anger that she had aroused against her; but 
 she could not make up her mind how to act, for she could
 
 114 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 not tell in what mood she might find him. One repulse 
 was as much, she felt, as she could bear. At last, how 
 ever, her feelings became so wrought up, that she deter 
 mined to go down and seek to be reconciled. Her bro 
 ther's anger was more than she could bear. 
 
 When she entered the parlours, with her usual quiet 
 step, she found him seated near the window, reading. 
 He lifted his head as she came in, and she saw at a glance 
 that all his angry feelings were gone. How lightly did 
 her heart bound as she sprang forward ! 
 
 " Will you forgive me, brother ?" she said, laying her 
 hand upon his shoulder as she stood by his side, and bent 
 her face down until her fair cheek almost touched his 
 own. 
 
 " Rather let me say, will you forgive me, sister ?" was 
 his reply, as he kissed her affectionately " for the unkind 
 repulse I gave you, when to say what you did must have 
 caused you a most painful sacrifice of feeling ?" 
 
 " Painful indeed it was, brother. But it is past now 
 and all forgiven." 
 
 "Since then, Alice," he said, after a pause, "I have 
 taken a solemn oath, administered by an Alderman, not 
 to touch any kind of intoxicating drink for six months." 
 
 " O, I am so glad, John !" the sister said, a joyful smile 
 lighting up her beautiful young face. "But why did you 
 say six months ? Why not for life ?" 
 
 " Because, Alice, I do not wish to bind myself down to 
 a kind of perpetual slavery. I wish to be free, and act 
 right in freedom from a true principle of right. Six 
 months of entire abstinence from all kinds of liquor will 
 destroy that appetite for it which has caused me, of late, 
 to seek it far too often. And then I will, as a free man, 
 remain free." 
 
 "I shall now be so happy again, John!" Alice said, 
 fully satisfied with her brother's reason. 
 
 " So you have not been happy then of late 1" 
 
 11 0, no, brother. Far from it." 
 
 " And has the fact of my using wine so freely been the 
 cause of your unhappiness ?" 
 
 " Solely." 
 
 " Its effects upon me have not been so visible as often 
 to attract your attention, Alice ?"
 
 SWEARING OFF. 115 
 
 "O, yes, they have. Scarcely a day has gone by for 
 three or four months past, that I could not see that your 
 mind was obscured, and often your actions sensibly af 
 fected." 
 
 "I did not dream that it was so, Alice." 
 
 " Are you not sensible, that at Mr. Weston's, last night 
 you were by no means yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, Alice, I am sensible of that, and deeply has it 
 mortified me. I was suffering acutely from the recollec 
 tion of the exposure which I made of myself on that 
 occasion, especially before Helen, when you alluded to 
 the subject. That was the reason that 1 could not bear 
 your allusion to it. But tell me, Alice, did you perceive 
 that my situation attracted Helen's attention particu 
 larly ?" 
 
 " Yes. She noticed, evidently, that you were not as 
 you ought to have been." 
 
 "How did it affect her, Alice?" asked the young man. 
 
 " She seemed much pained, and, I thought, mortified." 
 
 " Mortified 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 A pause of some moments ensued, when Barclay ask 
 ed, in a tone of interest, 
 
 "Do you think it has prejudiced her against me?" 
 
 " It has evidently pained her very much, but I do not 
 think that it has created in her mind any prejudice against 
 you." 
 
 " From what do you infer this, Alice ?" 
 
 " From the fact, that, while we were alone in her cham 
 ber, on my going up stairs to put on my bonnet and shawl, 
 she said to me, and her eyes were moist as well as my 
 own, ' Alice, you ought to speak to your brother, and 
 caution him against this free indulgence in wine ; it may 
 grow on him, unawares. If he were as near to me as he 
 is to you, I should not feel that my conscience was clear 
 unless I warned him of his danger.' " 
 
 "Did she say that, sister?" 
 
 " Yes, those were her very words." 
 
 " And you did warn me, faithfully." 
 
 " Yes. But the task is one I pray that I may never 
 again have to perform."
 
 116 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 " Amen," was the fervent response. 
 
 "How do you like Helen?" the young man asked, in a 
 livelier tone, after a silence of nearly a minute. 
 
 " I have always been attached to her, John. You know 
 that we have been together since we were little girls, 
 until now we seem almost like sisters." 
 
 " And a sister, truly, I hope she may one day become," 
 the brother said, with a meaning smile. 
 
 " Most affectionately will I receive her as such," was 
 the reply of Alice. " Than Helen Weston, there is no 
 one whom I had rather see the wife of my dear bro 
 ther." 
 
 As she said this, she drew her arm around his neck, 
 and kissed him affectionately. 
 
 "It shall not be my fault, then, Alice, if she do not 
 become your sister " was the brother's response. 
 
 Rigidly true to his pledge, John Barclay soon gained 
 the honourable estimation in the social circle through 
 which he moved, that he had held, before wine, the 
 mocker, had seduced him from the ways of true sobriety, 
 and caused even his best friends to regard him with 
 changed feelings. Possessing a competence, which a 
 father's patient industry had accumulated, he had not, 
 hitherto, thought of entering upon any business. Now, 
 however, he began to see the propriety of doing so, and 
 as he had plenty of capital, he proposed to a young man 
 of industrious habits and thorough knowledge of business 
 to enter into a co-partnership with him. This offer was 
 accepted, and the two young men commenced the world 
 with the fairest prospects. 
 
 Three months from the day on which John Barclay 
 had mentioned to his sister that he entertained a regard 
 for Keren Weston, he made proposals of marriage to that 
 young lady, which were accepted. 
 
 "But how in regard to his pledge?" I hear some one 
 ask. 
 
 O, as to that, it was kept, rigidly. Nothing that could 
 intoxicate was allowed to touch his lips. Of course, he 
 was at first frequently asked to drink by his associates, 
 but his reply to all importunities was 
 
 " No I have sworn off for six months." 
 
 " So you have said for the last six months," remarked
 
 SWEARING OFF. 117 
 
 a young man, named Watson, one day, on his reiusing 
 for the twentieth time to drink with him. 
 
 " Not for six months, Watson. It is only three months 
 this very day since I swore off'." 
 
 " Well, it seems to me like six months, anyhow. But 
 do you think that you feel any better for all this total- 
 abstinence ?' 
 
 " O, as to that, I don't know that I feel such a wonder 
 ful difference in body ; but in mind I certainly do feel a 
 great deal better." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " While I drank, I was conscious that I was beginning 
 to be too fond of drinking, and was too often painfully 
 conscious that I had taken too much. Now, I am, of 
 course, relieved from all such unpleasant feelings." 
 
 " Well, that 's something, at least. But I never saw 
 you out of the way." 
 
 " Do you know the reason, Watson ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I '11 tell you. You were always too far gone your 
 self, when we drank freely together, to perceive my con 
 dition." 
 
 " So you say." 
 
 " It 's true." 
 
 " Well, have it as you like. But, see here, John, what 
 are you going to do when your six months are out ?' 
 
 " I 'm going to be a sober man, as I am now." 
 
 " You never were a drunkard." 
 " " I was precious near being one, then." 
 
 " Nonsense ! That 's all some old woman's notion of 
 yours." 
 
 " Well, be that as it may, I certainly intend continuing 
 to be as sober a man as I have been for the last three 
 months." 
 
 " Won't you drink a drop after your time is up ?" 
 
 " That '11 be just as I choose. I will drink or let it 
 alone, as I like. I shall then be free to drink moderately, 
 or not at all, as seems agreeable to me." 
 
 " That is a little more sensible than your perpetual 
 total-abstinence, teetotal, cold-water system. Who would 
 be such a miserable slave? I would rather die drunk in 
 the gutter, than throw away my liberty."
 
 118 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 " I believe I have said as much myself." 
 
 " Don't you feel a desire to have a good glass of wine 
 or a julep, now and then ?" 
 
 "No, not the slightest. I've sworn off for six months^ 
 and that ends the matter. Of course, I have no more 
 desire for a glass of liquor than I have to fly to the moon, 
 one is a moral, and the other a physical impossibility; 
 and, therefore, are dismissed from my thoughts." 
 
 " What do you mean by a moral impossibility ?" 
 
 " I have taken an oath not to drink for six months, and 
 the violation of that oath is, for one of my views and 
 feelings, a moral impossibility." 
 
 "Exactly. There are three months yet to run, you 
 say. After that, I hope to have the pleasure of taking 
 a glass of wine with you in honour of your restoration to 
 a state of freedom." 
 
 " You shall have that pleasure, Watson, if it will really 
 be one " was Barclay's reply, as the two young men 
 parted. 
 
 Time wore on, and John Barclay, besides continuing 
 perfectly sober, gave constant attention to business. So 
 complete a change in him gave confidence to the parents 
 and friends of Helen Weston, who made no opposition to 
 his wish for an early marriage. It was fixed to take 
 place on the evening of the very day upon which his tem 
 porary pledge was to expire. 
 
 To the expiration of this pledge, Barclay had never 
 ceased, from the moment it was taken, to look forward 
 with a lively interest. Not that he felt a desire to drink. 
 But he suffered himself to be worried with the idea that 
 he was no longer a free man. The nearer the day came 
 that was to terminate the period for which he had bound 
 himself to abstinence, the more did his mind dwell upon 
 it, and the more did he desire its approach. It was, like 
 wise, to be his wedding-day, and for that reason, also, did 
 he look eagerly forward. But it is doubtful whether the 
 consummation of his marriage, or the expiration of his 
 pledge, occupied most of his thoughts. 
 
 The day so long looked for came at last. The day 
 that was to make Barclay a free man, and happy in the 
 possession of one of the sweetest girls for a wife he had 
 ever seen.
 
 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 "1 shall not see you again, until to-night, John," his 
 sister said to him, as he was about leaving the house, 
 after dinner, laying her hand as she spoke upon his arm, 
 and looking into his face with a quiet smile resting upon 
 her own lovely features. " I have promised Helen to go 
 over and spend the afternoon with her." 
 
 " Very well, sis'." 
 
 " Of course we shall see you pretty early," an arch 
 smile playing about her lips as she made the remark. 
 
 " O, yes, I shall be there in time," was the brother's 
 smiling reply, as he kissed the cheek of Alice, and then 
 turned away and left the house. He first proceeded to 
 his store, where he went through, hurriedly, some busi 
 ness that required his attention, occupying something like 
 an hour. Then he went out, and walked rapidly up one 
 of the principal streets of the city, and down another, as 
 if on some urgent errand. Without stopping anywhere, 
 he had nearly returned to his own store, when he was 
 stopped by a friend, who accosted him with 
 
 " Hallo, John ! Where are you going in such a hurry 1" 
 
 " I am on my way to the store." 
 
 " Any life and death in the case ?" 
 
 " No. Only I 'm to be married to-night, as you are 
 aware; and, consequently, am hardly able to tell whether 
 I am on my head or my heels." 
 
 " True enough ! And besides, you are a free man to 
 day, are you not 1" 
 
 " Yes, Watson, thank Heaven ! that trammel will be 
 off in half an hour." 
 
 " You must be fond of trammels, John, seeing that you 
 are going to put another on so soon after getting rid of 
 this " the friend said, laughing heartily at his jest. 
 
 " That will be a lighter, and far pleasanter bondage I 
 trust, Watson, than the one from which I am about 
 escaping. It will be an easy yoke compared to the gall 
 ing one under which I have toiled for the last six months. 
 Still, I do not regret having bound myself as I did. It 
 was necessary to give me that self-control which I had 
 well-nigh lost. Now I shall be able to act like a rational 
 man, and be temperate from principle, and not from a 
 mere external restraint that made me little better than a 
 machine."
 
 120 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 " Your time will be up, you say, in half an hour ?" 
 
 Yes " looking at his watch " in ten minutes. It is 
 later than I thought." 
 
 " Come, then, let us go over to R 's it is full ten 
 
 minutes' walk from here and take a drink to freedom and 
 principle." 
 
 "lam ready to join you, of course," was Barclay's 
 prompt reply, as he drew his arm within that of his friend, 
 and the two turned their steps towards the drinking estab 
 lishment that had been named by the latter. 
 
 " A room, a bottle of sherry, and some cigars," said 
 Watson, as they entered the drinking-house, and went 
 up to the bar. 
 
 In a few minutes after, they were alone, with wine anr 
 glasses before them. 
 
 "Here's to freedom and principle!" said Watson, lift 
 ing his glass, after having filled his own and Barclay's. 
 
 " And here 's to the same high moral atributes which 
 should ever be man's distinguishing characteristics," re 
 sponded Barclay, lifting his own glass, and touching with 
 it the brim of that held in the hand of his friend. Both 
 then emptied their glasses at a draught. 
 
 " Really, that is delicious !" Barclay said, smacking his 
 lips, as the rich flavour of the wine lingered on his palate 
 with a sensation of exquisite delight. 
 
 " It 's a pretty fair article," was the indifferent reply of 
 Watson " though I have tasted better in my time. Long 
 abstinence has made its flavour peculiarly pleasant. Here, 
 let me fill your glass again." 
 
 Without hesitating, Barclay presented his glass, which 
 was again filled to the brim. In the next moment it was 
 empty. So eager was he to get it to his lips, that he even 
 spilled a portion of the wine in lifting it hurriedly. Sud 
 denly his old, and as he had thought, extinguished' desires, 
 came back upon him, roused into vigorous activity, like a 
 giant awakening refreshed by a long repose. So keen was 
 his appetite for wine, and stimulating drinks, thus sudden 
 ly restored, that he could no more have withstood its 
 influence than he could have borne up against the current 
 of a mighty river. 
 
 "Help yourself," said his friend, ere another minute 
 had elapsed, as Barclay took up the bottle to fill his glass
 
 SWEARING OFF. 121 
 
 for the third time. " Long-abstinence has no doubt made 
 you keen." 
 
 "It certainly has, or else this is the finest article of 
 wine that has ever passed my lips." 
 
 "It's not the best quality by a good deal; still it is 
 pretty fair. But won't you try a mint-julep, or a punch, 
 by way of variety ?" 
 
 " No objection," was the brief response. 
 
 " Which will you choose 1" 
 
 "I'll take a julep." 
 
 " Two juleps," said Watson to the waiter who entered 
 immediately afterwards. 
 
 The juleps were soon ready, each furnished with a long 
 straw. 
 
 " Delicious !" was Barclay's low, and delighted ejacula 
 tion, as he bent to the table, and " imbibed" through the 
 straw a portion of the liquid. 
 
 " Our friend R understands his business," was 
 
 Watson's brief reply. 
 
 A silence of some moments ensued, during which a 
 painful consciousness of danger rushed through the mind 
 of Barclay. But with an effort he dismissed it. He did 
 not intend to drink beyond the bounds of moderation, and 
 why should he permit his mind to be disturbed by idle 
 fears? ***** 
 
 " It is time that brother was here," Alice said to Helen 
 Weston, as the two maidens sat alone, near a window in 
 Helen's chamber, the evening twilight falling gently and 
 with a soothing influence. 
 
 " Yes. I expected him earlier," was the reply, in a 
 low tone, while Helen's bosom heaved with a new, and 
 exquisitely pleasurable emotion. " What can keep him ?" 
 
 " He is lingering at his toilet, perhaps," Alice said, with 
 a smile. 
 
 All was silent again for many minutes, each gentle and 
 innocent heart, busy with images of delight. 
 
 " It 's strange that he does not come, Alice, or sister, as 
 I must call you," Helen remarked, in a graver tone, as 
 the shadowy twilight deepened until everything wore a 
 veil of indistinctness. 
 
 "There! That must be him!" Alice said. "Hark! 
 That is certainly his voice ! Yes And he is coming
 
 122 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 right up to your room, as I live, as boldly as if the house 
 belonged to him." 
 
 While Alice was yet speaking, the door of the cham 
 ber in which they sat was swung open with a rude hand, 
 and her brother entered. His face was flushed, and his 
 whole person in disorder. 
 
 " Why, brother ! what has kept ," but the sister 
 
 could utter no more. Her tongue was paralyzed, and she 
 stood, statue-like, gazing upon him with a look of horror. 
 He was intoxicated! It was his wedding-night, a portion 
 of the company below, and the gentle, affectionate maiden 
 who was to become his bride, all attired and waiting, and 
 he had come intoxicated ! 
 
 Poor Helen's bewildered senses could not at first fully 
 comprehend the scene. When she did realize the terrible 
 truth, the shock was more than she could bear. 
 
 Over the whole scene of pain, disorder, and confusion, 
 that transpired on that evening, we must draw a veil. 
 Any reader of even ordinary imagination can realize 
 enough of the exquisite distress which it must have 
 brought to many hearts, without the aid of distinct pic 
 tures. And those who cannot realize it, will be spared 
 the pain of its contemplation. 
 
 One week from that night, at about nine o'clock in the 
 evening, as old Mr. Gray was passing along one of the 
 principal streets of the city where the occurrences we 
 are relating took place, a young man staggered against 
 him, and then fell at full length upon the pavement, from 
 whence he rolled into the gutter, swollen by a smart 
 shower that had just fallen. Too drunk to help himself, 
 he must have been drowned even in that insignificant 
 stream, had there not been help at hand. 
 
 Mr. Gray came at once to his relief, and assisted him 
 to rise and get upon the pavement. But now he was 
 unable to stand. Either hurt by the fall, or unnerved by 
 the liquor he had taken, he was no longer able to keep 
 his feet. While Mr. Gray stood holding him up, unde 
 termined how to act, another young man, not quite so 
 drunk as the one he had in charge, came whooping along 
 like an Indian. 
 
 " Hallo ! Is this you, John, holding up old Mr. Gray? 
 or is it old Mr. Gray holding you up! [hiccup.] Blast me !
 
 SWEARING OFF. 123 
 
 if I can tell which of you is drunk, or which sober. Let 
 me see ? hic-hic-cup. Was it the Whale that swallowed 
 Jonah, or Jonah the Whale 1 Is it old Mr. Gray hic-cup 
 that is drunk, or John Barclay ?" 
 
 "John Barclay!" ejaculated the old man, in a tone of 
 surprise and grief. " Surely this wretched young man is 
 not John Barclay !" 
 
 " If he is not John Barclay, then I am not hic-cup 
 not Tom Watson. He 's a bird, though ! aint he, old 
 gentleman? hic-cup Look here, I'll give you five dol 
 lars, hic-cup if you'll stop these, hie these confound 
 ed hic-hic-hic-cups There now There 's a chance for 
 you ! hie blast 'em ! He swore off for six months, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! And it 's just, hie just a week to-night since 
 the six months were up. Hurrah for freedom and prin 
 ciple ! Hur hie hurrah !" 
 
 " Thomas Watson ! " 
 
 " Don't come your preaching touch over me, mister, if 
 you please. I 'm free Tom Watson, hic-hic-hic-cup 
 I 'm hie I 'm a regular team whoop ! John, there, 
 you see, would drink to freedom and principle, hic-cup 
 on the hie day his pledge was up. But the old fellow 
 was hie too strong hic-cup for him. He's been 
 drunk as a fool ever since hic-cup ! " 
 
 Just at that moment a cab came by which was stop 
 ped by the old man. Young Barclay was gotten into 
 it and driven to Mr. Gray's dwelling. When brought to 
 the light, he presented a sad spectacle, indeed. His face 
 was swollen, and every feature distorted. His coat was 
 torn, and all of his clothing wet and covered with mud. 
 Too far gone to be able to help himself, Mr. Gray had 
 him removed to a chamber, his wet garments taken off, 
 and replaced by dry under-clothing. Then he was put 
 into a bed and left for the night. 
 
 When the morning broke, Barclay was perfectly sober, 
 but with a mind altogether bewildered. The room in 
 which he found himself, and the furniture, were all strange. 
 He got up; and looked from the window ; the houses oppo 
 site were unfamiliar. 
 
 " Where ami? What is the meaning of all this ?" he 
 said, half-aloud, as he turned to look for his clothes. But
 
 124 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 no garments of any kind, not even his hat and boots, 
 were visible. 
 
 " Strange !" he murmured, getting into bed again, and 
 clasping his hands tightly upon his aching and bewildered 
 head. He had Iain, thus, for some minutes, trying to col 
 lect his scattered senses, when the door of his chamber 
 was opened by a servant, who brought him in a full suit 
 of his own clothes; not, however, those he remembered 
 to have worn the day previous. 
 
 As soon as the servant had withdrawn, the young man, 
 who had felt altogether disinclined to speak to him, hur 
 riedly arose, and dressed himself. On attempting to go 
 out, he was surprised, and somewhat angered, to find that 
 the door of the room had been locked. 
 
 Ringing the bell with a quick jerk, he awaited, im 
 patiently, an answer to his summons, for the space of 
 about a minute, when he pulled the cord again with a 
 stronger hand. Only a few moments more elapsed, when 
 the key was turned in the door, and Mr. Gray entered. 
 
 " Mr. Gray ! Is it possible !" Barclay ejaculated, as the 
 old man stepped into the room, and closed the door after 
 him. 
 
 " I can hardly believe it possible, John," his father's 
 friend said, as he turned towards him a sad, yet unre- 
 proving countenance. 
 
 " But what is the meaning of all this, Mr. Gray ? Where 
 am 1 1 And how came I here ?" 
 
 " Sit down, John, and be calm. You are in my house. 
 Last night I took you from the gutter, too much intoxi 
 cated to help yourself. You would have drowned there, 
 in three inches of water, had not a friendly hand been 
 near to save you." 
 
 " Dreadful !" ejaculated the young man, striking his 
 hand hard against his forehead, while an expression of 
 shame and agonizing remorse passed over his face. 
 
 " It is, indeed, dreadful to think of, my young friend !" 
 Mr. Gray remarked, in a sympathizing tone. " How 
 wretched you must be !" 
 
 " Wretched ? Alas ! sir, you cannot imagine the horror 
 of this dreadful moment. Surely I have been mad for 
 the past few days ! And enough has occurred to drive 
 me mad. '
 
 SWEARING OFF. 125 
 
 " So I should think, John. But that is past now, and 
 the future is still yours, and its bright page still unsullied 
 by a single act of folly." 
 
 " But the past ! The dreadful past ! That can never be 
 recalled never be atoned for," Barclay replied, his 'coun 
 tenance bearing the strongest expression of anguish and 
 remorse. " To think of all I have lost ! To think how 
 cruelly I have mocked the fondest hopes, and crushed the 
 purest affections perhaps broken a loving heart by my 
 folly. O, sir ! It will drive me mad !" 
 
 As the young man said this, he arose to his feet, and 
 commenced pacing the room to and fro with agitated 
 steps. Now striking his hands against his forehead, and 
 now wringing them violently. 
 
 " Since that accursed hour," he resumed, after a few 
 minutes thus spent, " when I madly tempted myself, under 
 the belief that I had gained the mastery over a depraved 
 appetite by an abstinence from all kinds of liquor for six 
 months, I have but a dim recollection of events. I do, 
 indeed, remember, with tolerable distinctness, that I went 
 to claim the hand of Helen Weston, according to appoint 
 ment. But from the moment I entered the house, all is 
 to me confusion, or a dead blank. Tell me, then, Mr. 
 Gray," and the young man's voice grew calmer, " the 
 effect of my miserable conduct upon her whom I loved 
 purely and tenderly. Let me know all. I ask no dis 
 guise." 
 
 " The effect, John, has been painful, indeed. Since 
 that dreadful night, she has remained in a state of partial 
 delirium. But her physician told me, yesterday, that all 
 of her symptoms had become more favourable." 
 
 " And how is her father, and friends ?" 
 
 " Deeply incensed, of course, at your conduct." 
 
 " And my sister ? How is Alice 1" 
 
 " She keeps up with an effort. But oh, how wretched 
 and broken-hearted she looks ! Is it not dreadful, John, to 
 think, how, by a single act of folly, you have lacerated 
 the hearts that loved you most, and imposed upon them 
 burdens of anguish, almost too heavy to be borne ?" 
 
 " It is dreadful ! dreadful ! O, that I had died, before I 
 became an accursed instrument of evil to those I love '
 
 126 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 But what can I do, Mr. Gray, to atone, in some degree, 
 for the misery I have wrought?" 
 
 " You can do much, John, if you will." 
 
 "If I will, Mr. Gray?" 
 
 " Yes, John, if you will." 
 
 "There is nothing that I am not ready to do, Mr. 
 Gray even the cutting off of my right hand, could it be 
 of any avail." 
 
 " Y'ou swore off, as I believe you called it, for six 
 months, did you not?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Had you any desire to drink, during that time ?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Sign a pledge of perpetual total-abstinence, and you 
 are safe from all future temptations. Time will doubtless 
 heal the present painful wounds." 
 
 "And make a slave of myself, Mr. Gray. Surely I 
 ought to have power enough over myself to abstain from 
 all intoxicating drinks, without binding myself down by a 
 written contract." 
 
 " That is true ; but, unfortunately, you have not that 
 control over yourself. Your only safety, then, lies in the 
 pledge. Take that, and you throw between yourself and 
 danger an insurmountable barrier. You talk about free 
 dom; and yet are a slave to the most debasing appetite. 
 Get free from the influence of that eager, insatiable de 
 sire, and you are free, indeed. The perpetual total- 
 abstinence pledge will be your declaration of indepen 
 dence. When that is taken, you will be free, indeed. 
 And until it is taken, rest assured, that none of your 
 friends will again have confidence in you. For their 
 sakes, for your sister's sake, that peace may once more 
 be restored to her troubled heart for the sake of her, 
 from whose lip you dashed the cup of joy, sign the 
 pledge." 
 
 " I will sign it, Mr. Gray. But name not her whom I 
 have so deeply wronged. I can never see Helen Weston 
 again." 
 
 " Time heals many a wound, and closes many a breach 
 my young friend." 
 
 " It can never heal that wound, nor close that breach," 
 was the sad response. " But give me a pen and ink, and
 
 SWEARING OFF. 127 
 
 some paper ; and let me write a pledge. I believe it is 
 necessary for me to sign one." 
 
 The materials for writing were brought as desired, and 
 Barclay wrote and subscribed a pledge of perpetual ab 
 stinence from all that could intoxicate. 
 
 " That danger is past," he said, with a lighter tone, as 
 he arose from the table at which he had been writing. I 
 can never pass another such a week as that which has 
 just elapsed." 
 
 " Now come down and take a good warm breakfast 
 with me," Mr. Gray said, in a cheerful voice. 
 
 " Excuse me if you please," Barclay replied. " I can 
 not meet your family this morning, after what has occur 
 red. Besides, I must see my sister as quickly as possi 
 ble, and relieve, as far as lies in my power, her suffering 
 heart." 
 
 " Go then, John Barclay," the old man said. " I will 
 not, for Alice's sake, urge you to linger a moment." 
 
 It was still early when Mr. Barclay entered his own 
 home. He found Alice sitting in the parlour so pale, hag 
 gard, and wretched, that her features hardly seemed like 
 those of his own sister. She looked up into his face as 
 he came in with a sad, doubting expression, while her lips 
 trembled. One glance, however, told her heart that a 
 change had taken place, and she sprang quickly towards 
 him. 
 
 " Alice, my own dear sister !" he said, as her head sank 
 upon his breast. " The struggle is over. I am free once 
 more, and free for ever. I have just signed a pledge of 
 total-abstinence from all that can intoxicate a pledge 
 that will remain perpetually in force." 
 
 " And may our Father in Heaven help you to keep it, 
 John," the maiden murmured, in a low, fervent tone. 
 
 *' I will die before it shall be violated," was the stern 
 response. 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 One year from that time, another bridal party assem 
 bled at the residence of Mr. Weston. Helen long 
 since recovered from the shock she had received, had 
 again consented to be led to the altar, by John Barclay, 
 whose life had been, since he signed the pledge, of the 
 most unexceptionable character. Indeed, almost his only 
 
 16
 
 128 SWEARING OFF. 
 
 fault in former times had been a fondness for drinking, 
 and gay company. Not much of boisterous mirth cha 
 racterized the bridal party, for none felt like giving way 
 to an exuberance of feeling, but there was, notwith 
 standing few could draw a veil entirely over the past, a 
 rational conviction that true and permanent happiness 
 must, and would crown that marriage union. And thus 
 far, it has followed it, and must continue to follow it, for 
 John Barclay is a man of high-toned principle, and would 
 as soon think of committing a highway robbery, as vio 
 lating his pledge.
 
 THE 
 
 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 " SHALL I read to you, ma ?" said Emma Martin, a little 
 girl, eleven years of age, coming up to the side of her 
 mother, who sat in a musing attitude by the centre-table, 
 upon which the servant had just placed a light. 
 
 Mrs. Martin did not seem to hear the voice of her 
 child ; for she moved not, nor was there any change in 
 the fixed, dreamy expression of her face. 
 
 " Ma," repeated the child, after waiting for a few mo 
 ments, laying, at the same time, her head gently upon her 
 mother's shoulder. 
 
 " What, dear 1" Mrs. Martin asked, in a tender voice, 
 rousing herself up. 
 
 " Shall I read to you, ma ?" repeated the child. 
 
 " No yes, dear, you may read for me" the mother 
 said, and her tones were low, with something mournful in 
 their expression. 
 
 "What shall I read, ma?" 
 
 " Get the Bible, dear, and read to me from that good 
 book," replied Mrs. Martin. 
 
 "I love to read in the Bible," Emma said, as she 
 brought to the centre-table that sacred volume, and com 
 menced turning over its pages. She then read chapter 
 after chapter, while the mother listened in deep attention, 
 often lifting her heart upwards, and breathing a silent 
 prayer. At last Emma grew tired with reading, and 
 closed the book. 
 
 " It is time for you to go to bed, dear," Mrs. Martin 
 observed, as the little girl showed signs of weariness. 
 
 " Kiss me, ma," the child said, lifting her innocent face 
 to that of her mother, and receiving the token of love she 
 asked. Then, breathing her gentle, 
 
 "Good-night!" the affectionate girl glided off, and 
 retired to her chamber. 
 
 17 (129)
 
 130 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 " Dear child !'* Mrs. Martin murmured, as Emma left 
 the room. " My heart trembles when I think of you, and 
 look into the dark and doubtful future 1" 
 
 She then leaned her head upon her hand, and sat in 
 deep, and evidently painful abstraction of mind. Thus 
 she remained for a long time, until aroused by the clock 
 which struck the hour of ten. 
 
 With a deep sigh she arose, and commenced pacing 
 the room backwards and forwards, pausing every now 
 and then to listen to the sound of approaching footsteps, 
 and moving on again as the sound went by. Thus she 
 continued to walk until nigh eleven o'clock, when some 
 one drew near, paused at the street door, and then open 
 ing it, came along the passage with a firm and steady 
 step. 
 
 Mrs. Martin stopped, trembling in spite of herself, before 
 the parlour door, which a moment after was swung open. 
 One glance at the face of the individual who entered, con 
 vinced her that her solicitude had been unnecessary. 
 
 " Oh, James !" she said, the tears gushing from her eyes, 
 in spite of a strong effort to compose herself, " I am so 
 glad that you have come !" 
 
 " Why are you so agitated, Emma?" her husband said, 
 in some surprise, looking inquiringly into Mrs. Martin's 
 face. 
 
 " You staid out so late and you know I am foolish 
 sometimes !" she replied, leaning her head down upon his 
 shoulder, and continuing to weep. 
 
 A change instantly passed upon Mr. Martin's counte 
 nance, and he stood still, for some time, his face wearing 
 a grave thoughtful expression, while his wife remained 
 with her head leaning upon him. At last he drew his 
 arm tenderly around her, and said 
 
 "Emma, I am a sober man." 
 
 " Do not, dear James ! speak of that. I am so happv 
 now !" 
 
 " Yes, Emma, I will speak of it now." And as he said 
 so, he gently seated her upon the sofa, and took his place 
 beside her. 
 
 " Emma" he resumed, looking her steadily in the face. 
 " I have resolved never again to touch the accursed cup 
 that has so well-nigh destroyed our peace for ever."
 
 FAILING HOPE. 131 
 
 "Oh, James ! What a mountain you have taken from 
 my heart !" Mrs. Martin replied, the whole expression of 
 her face changing as suddenly as a landscape upon which 
 the sun shines from beneath an obscuring cloud. " I have 
 had nothing to trouble me but that yet that one trouble 
 has seemed more than I could possibly bear." 
 
 " You shall have no more trouble, Emma. I have been 
 for some months under a strange delusion, it has seemed. 
 But I am now fully awake, and see the dangerous preci 
 pice upon which I have been standing. This night, I 
 have solemnly resolved that I would drink no more 
 spirituous liquors. Nothing stronger than wine shall 
 again pass my lips." 
 
 " I cannot tell you how my heart is relieved," the wife 
 said. "The whole of this evening I have been painfully 
 oppressed with fear and dark forebodings. Our dear 
 little girl is now at that age, when her future prospects 
 interest me all the while. I think of them night and day. 
 Shall they all be marred ? I have asked myself often and 
 often. But I could give my heart no certain answer. I 
 need not tell you why." 
 
 " Give yourself no more anxiety on this point, Emma," 
 her husband replied. " I will be a free man again. I 
 will be to you and my dear child all that I have ever 
 been." 
 
 " May our Heavenly Father aid you to keep that reso 
 lution," was the silent prayer that went up from the heart 
 of Mrs. Martin. 
 
 The failing hope of her bosom revived under this 
 assurance. She felt again as in the early years of their 
 wedded life, when hope and confidence, and tender affec 
 tion were all in the bloom and vigour of their first de- 
 velopement. The light came back to her eye, and the 
 smile to her lip. 
 
 It was about four months afterwards, that Mr. Martin 
 was invited to make one of a small party, given to a 
 literary man, as visiter from a neighbouring city. 
 
 " I shall not be home to dinner, Emma," he said, on 
 leaving in the morning. 
 
 " Why not, James?" she asked. 
 
 " I am going to dine at four, with a select party of 
 gentlemen."
 
 ]32 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 Mrs. Martin did not reply, but a cloud passed over her 
 face, in spite of an effort not to seem concerned. 
 
 "Don't be uneasy, Emma," her husband said, noting 
 this change. " I shall touch nothing but wine. I know 
 rny weakness, and shall be on my guard." 
 
 " Do be watchful over yourself, for my sake, and for 
 the sake of our own dear child," Mrs. Martin replied, 
 laying her arm tenderly upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Have no fear, Emma," he said, and kissing the yet 
 fair and beautiful cheek of his wife, Mr. Martin left the 
 house. 
 
 How long, how very long did the day seem to Mrs. 
 Martin ! The usual hour for his return came and went, the 
 dinner hardly tasted ; and then his wife counted the hours 
 as they passed lingeringly away, until the dim, grey 
 twilight fell with a saddening influence around her. 
 
 " He will be home soon, now," she thought. But the 
 minutes glided into hours, and still he did not come. The 
 tea-table stood in the floor until nearly nine o'clock, before 
 Mrs. Martin sat down with little Emma. But no food 
 passed the mother's lips. She could not eat. There was 
 a strange fear about her heart a dread of coming evil, 
 that chilled her feelings, and threw a dark cloud over her 
 spirits. 
 
 In the meantime, Martin had gone to the dinner-party, 
 firm in his resolution not to touch a drop of ardent spirits. 
 But the taste of wine had inflamed his appetite, and he 
 drank more and more freely, until he ceased to feel the 
 power of his resolution, and again put brandy to his lips, 
 and drank with the eagerness of a worn and thirsty tra 
 veller at a cooling brook. It was nine o'clock when the 
 company arose, or rather attempted to arise from the table. 
 Not all of them could accomplish that feat. Three, 
 Martin among the rest, were carried off to bed, in a state 
 of helpless intoxication. 
 
 Hour after hour passed away, the anxiety of Mrs. 
 Martin increasing every moment, until the clock struck 
 twelve. 
 
 "Why does he stay so late?" she said, rising and 
 pacing the room backwards and forwards. This she 
 continued to do, pausing every now and then to listen, 
 for nearly an hour. Then she went to the door and look-
 
 FAILING HOPE. 133 
 
 ed long and anxiously in the direction from which she 
 expected her husband to come. But his well-known form 
 met not her eager eyes, that peered so intently into the 
 darkness and gloom of the night. With another long- 
 drawn sigh, she closed the door, and re-entered the silent 
 and lonely room. That silence was broken by the loud 
 and clear ringing of the clock. The hour was one ! Mrs. 
 Martin's feelings now became too much excited for her to 
 control them. She sank into a chair, and wept in silent 
 anguish of spirit. For nearly a quarter of an hour her 
 tears continued to flow, and then a deep calm succeeded 
 a kind of mental stupor, that remained until she wa? 
 startled again into distinct consciousness by the sound of 
 the clock striking two. 
 
 All hope now faded from her bosom. Up to this time 
 she had entertained a feeble expectation that her husband 
 might be kept away from some other cause than the one 
 she so dreaded; but now that prop became only as a 
 broken reed, to pierce her with a keener anguish. 
 
 " It is all over !" she murmured bitterly, as she again 
 arose, and commenced walking to and fro with slow and 
 measured steps. 
 
 It was fully three o'clock before that lonely, and almost 
 heart-broken wife and mother retired to her chamber. 
 How cruelly had the hope which had grown bright and 
 buoyant in the last few months, gaining more strength 
 and confidence every day, been again crushed to the 
 earth ! 
 
 For an hour longer did Mrs. Martin sit, listening in her 
 chamber, everything around her so hushed into oppres 
 sive silence, that the troubled beating of her own heart, 
 was distinctly audible. But she waited and listened in 
 vain. The sound of passing footsteps that now came 
 only at long, very long intervals, served but to arouse a 
 momentary gleam in her mind, to fade away again, and 
 leave it in deeper darkness. 
 
 Without disrobing, she now laid herself down, still lis 
 tening, with an anxiety that grew more and more intense 
 every moment. At last, over-wearied nature could bear 
 up no longer, and she sunk into a troubled sleep. When 
 she awoke from this, it was daylight. Oh, how weary 
 and worn and wretched she felt ! The cansciousness of
 
 134 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 why she thus lay, with her clothes unremoved, the sad 
 remembrance of her hours of waiting and watching 
 through nearly the whole night, all came up before her 
 with painful distinctness. Who but she who has suffered, 
 can imagine her feelings at that bitter moment 1 ? 
 
 On descending to the parlour, she found her husband 
 lying in a half-stupid condition on the sofa, the close air 
 of the room impregnated with his breath the sickening, 
 disgusting breath of a drunken man ! Bruised, crushed, 
 paralyzed affection had now to lift itself up the wife just 
 ready to sink to the earth, powerless, under the weight of 
 an overburdening affliction, had now to nerve herself 
 under the impulse of duty. 
 
 " James ! James !" she said, in a voice of assumed calm 
 ness laying her hand upon him and endeavouring to 
 arouse him to consciousness. But it was a long time 
 before she could get him so fully awake as to make him 
 understand that it was necessary for him to go up stairs 
 and retire to bed. At length she succeeded in getting 
 him into his chamber before the servants had come down; 
 and then into bed. Once there, he fell off again into a 
 profound sleep. 
 
 "Is pa sick?" asked little Emma, coming into her 
 mother's chamber, about an hour after, and seeing her 
 father in bed. 
 
 " Yes, dear, your father is quite unwell !" Mrs. Martin 
 said, in a calm voice. 
 
 " What ails him, ma 1" pursued the child. 
 
 " He is not very well, dear ; but will be better soon," 
 the mother said, evasively. 
 
 The little girl looked into her mother's face for a few 
 moments unsatisfied with the answer, and unwilling to 
 ask another question. She felt that something was wrong, 
 more than the simple illness of her father. 
 
 It was near the middle of the day when Mr. Martin 
 became fully awake and conscious of his condition. If 
 he had sought forgetfulness of the past night's debauch 
 and degradation, the sad, reproving face of his wife, pale 
 and languid from anxiety and watching, would too quick 
 ly have restored the memory of his fall. 
 
 The very bitterness of his self-condemnation the very 
 keenness of wounded pride irritated his feelings, and
 
 FAILING HOPE. 135 
 
 made him feel gloomy and sullen. He felt deeply for his 
 suffering wife he wished most ardently to speak to her a 
 word of comfort, but his pride kept him silent. At the 
 dinner hour, he eat a few mouthfuls in silence, and then 
 withdrew from the table and left the house to attend to 
 his ordinary business. On his way to his office, he passed 
 a hotel where he had been in the habit of drinking. He 
 felt so wretched so much in want of something to buoy 
 up his depressed feelings, that he entered, and calling for 
 some wine, drank two or three glasses. This, in a few 
 minutes, had the desired effect, and he repaired to his 
 office feeling like a new man. 
 
 During the afternoon, he drank wine frequently; and 
 when he returned home in the evening, was a good deal 
 under its influence ; so much so, that all the reserve he 
 had felt in the morning was gone. He spoke pleasantly 
 and freely with his wife talked of future schemes of 
 pleasure and success. But, alas ! his pleasant words fell 
 upon her heart like sunshine upon ice. It was too pain 
 fully evident that he had again been drinking and drink 
 ing to the extent of making him altogether unconscious 
 of his true position. She would rather a thousand times 
 have seen him overwhelmed by remorse. Then there 
 would have been something for her hope to have leaned 
 upon. 
 
 Day after day did Mr. Martin continue to resort to the 
 wine-cup. Every morning he felt so wretched that ex 
 istence seemed a burden to him, until his keen perceptions 
 were blunted by wine. Then the appetite for something 
 stronger would be stimulated, and draught after draught 
 of brandy would follow, until when night came, he would 
 return home to agonize the heart of his wife with a new 
 pang, keener than any that had gone before. 
 
 Such a course of conduct could not be pursued without 
 its becoming apparent to all in the house. Mrs. Martin 
 had, therefore, added to the cup of sorrow, the mortifica 
 tion and pain of having the servants, and her child daily 
 conscious of his degradation. Poor little Emma would 
 shrink away instinctively from her father when he would 
 return home in the evening and endeavour to lavish upon 
 her his caresses. Sometimes Mr. Martin would get irri 
 tated at this. 
 
 17
 
 136 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 "What are you sidling off in that way for, Emma?" 
 he said, half-angrily, one evening, when he was more 
 than usually under the influence of liquor, as Emma shrunk 
 away from him on his coming in. 
 
 The little girl paused and looked frightened glanc 
 ing first at her mother, and then again, timidly, at her 
 father. 
 
 " Come along here, I say," repeated the father, seating 
 himself, and holding out his hands. 
 
 " Go, dear," Mrs. Martin said. 
 
 " I reckon she can come without you telling her to, 
 madam !" her husband responded, angrily. " Come along, 
 I tell you !" he added in a loud, excited tone, his face 
 growing red with passion. 
 
 " There now ! Why didn't you come when I first spoke 
 to you, ha?" he said, drawing the child towards him with 
 a quick jerk, so soon as she came within reach of his 
 extended hand. " Say. Why didn't you come 1 Tell 
 me ! Aint I your father ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," was the timid reply. 
 
 " And havn't I taught you that you must obey me ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then why didn't you come, just now, when I called 
 you?" 
 
 To this interrogation the little girl made no reply, but 
 looked exceedingly frightened. 
 
 " Did you hear what I said ?" pursued the father, in a 
 louder voice. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then answer me, this instant ! Why didn't you come 
 when I called you ?" 
 
 " Because, I I I was afraid," was the timid, hesita 
 ting reply. 
 
 Something seemed to whisper to the father's mind a 
 consciousness, that his appearance and conduct while 
 under the influence of liquor, might be such as not only 
 to frighten, but estrange his child's affection from him ; 
 and he seemed touched by the thought, for his manner 
 changed, though he was still to a degree irrational. 
 
 " Go away, then, Emma ! Take her away, mother," he 
 said, in a tone which indicated that his feelings were 
 'ouched. " She don't love her father any more, and don'
 
 FAILING HOPE. 137 
 
 care anything more about him," pushing at the same time 
 the child away from him. 
 
 Poor little Emma burst into tears, and shrinking to the 
 side of her mother, buried her face in the folds of her 
 dress, sobbing as if her heart were breaking. 
 
 Mrs. Martin took her little girl by the hand and led her 
 from the room, up to the chamber, and kissing her, told 
 her to remain there until the servant brought her some 
 supper, when she could go to bed. 
 
 " I don't want any supper, ma !" she said, still sobbing 
 passionately. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear," Mrs. Martin said, soothingly. 
 
 '"Indeed, ma, I do love father," the child said look 
 ing up earnestly into her mother's face, the tears still 
 streaming over her cheeks. "Won't you tell him so 7" 
 
 " Yes, Emma, I will tell him," the mother replied. 
 
 " And won't you ask him to come up and kiss me after 
 I 'm in bed ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " And will he come ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he will come and kiss you." 
 
 Mrs. Martin remained with her little girl until her feel 
 ings were quieted down, and then she descended with 
 reluctant steps to the parlour. There was that in tha 
 scene which had just passed, that sobered, to a great 
 extent, the half-intoxicated husband and father, and caus 
 ed him to feel humbled and pained at his conduct ; which 
 it was too apparent was breaking the heart of his wife, 
 and estranging the affection of his child. 
 
 When Mrs. Martin re-entered the parlour, she found 
 him sitting near a table, with his head resting upon his 
 hand, and his whole manner indicating a state of painful 
 self-consciousness. With the instinctive perception of a 
 woman, she saw the truth ; and going at once up to him, 
 she laid her hand upon him, and said : 
 
 "James Emma wants you to come up and kiss her 
 after she gets into bed. She says that she does love you, 
 and she wished me to tell you so." 
 
 Mr. Martin did not reply. There was something calm, 
 gentle, and affectionate, in the manner and tones of his 
 wife, something that melted him completely down. A 
 choking sob followed ; when he arose hastily, and retired 
 
 18
 
 138 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 to his chamber. Mrs. Martin did not follow him thither. 
 She saw that his own reflections were doing more for him 
 than anything that she could do or say ; and, therefore, 
 she deemed it the part of wisdom to let his own reflec 
 tions be his companion, and do their own work. 
 
 When Mr. Martin entered his chamber, he seated him 
 self near the bed, and leaned his head down upon it. He 
 was becoming more and more sobered every moment 
 more and more distinctly conscious of the true nature of 
 the ground he occupied. Still his mind was a good deal 
 confused, for the physical action of the stimulus he had 
 taken through the day, had not yet subsided ; although 
 there was a strong mental counteracting cause in opera 
 tion, which was gradually subduing the effect of his pota 
 tions. As he sat thus, leaning his head upon his hand, 
 and half-reclining upon the bed, a deep sigh, or half-sup 
 pressed sob, caught his ear. It came from the adjoining 
 chamber. He remembered his child in an instant. His 
 only child whom he most fondly loved. He remember 
 ed, too, her conduct, but a short time before, and saw, 
 with painful distinctness, that he was estranging from 
 himself, and bringing sorrow upon one whose gentle 
 nature had affected even his heart with feelings of pecu 
 liar tenderness. 
 
 " My dear child !" he murmured, as he arose to his feet, 
 and went quietly into her room. She had already retired 
 to bed, and lay with her head almost buried beneath the 
 clothes, as if shrinking away with a sensation akin to fear. 
 But she heard him enter, and instantly rose up, saying, as 
 she saw him approach her bed 
 " O, pa, indeed I do love you !" 
 
 " And I love you, my child," Mr. Martin responded, 
 bending over her and kissing her forehead, cheeks, and 
 lips, with an earnest fondness. 
 
 "And don't you love ma, too ?" inquired Emma. 
 " Certainly I do, my dear ! Why do you ask me ?" 
 " Because I see her crying so often almost every day. 
 And she seems so troubled just before you come home, 
 every evening. She didn't use to be so. A good while 
 ago, she used to be always talking about when pa would 
 be home ; and used to dress me up every afternoon to see 
 you. But now she never says anything about your com-
 
 FAILING HOPE. 139 
 
 ing home at night. Don't you know how we used to 
 walk out and meet you sometimes? We never do it 
 now !" 
 
 This innocent appeal was like an arrow piercing him 
 with the most acute pain. He could not find words in 
 which to frame a reply. Simply kissing her again, and 
 bidding her a tender good-night, he turned away and left 
 her chamber, feeling more wretched than he had ever 
 felt in his life. 
 
 It was about twelve years since the wife of Mr. Martin 
 had united her hopes and affections with his. At that 
 time he was esteemed by all a strictly temperate man, 
 although he would drink with a friend, or at a convivial 
 party, whenever circumstances led him to do so. From 
 this kind of indulgence the appetite for liquor was form 
 ed. Two years after his marriage, Martin had become 
 so fond of drinking, that he took from two to three glasses 
 every day, regularly. Brandy at dinner-time was indis 
 pensable. The meal would have seemed to him wanting 
 in a principal article without it. It was not until about 
 five years after their marriage that Mrs. Martin was 
 aroused to a distinct consciousness of danger. Her hus 
 band came home so much intoxicated as to be scarcely 
 able to get up into his chamber. Then she remembered, 
 but too vividly, the slow, but sure progress he had been 
 making towards intemperance, during the past two or 
 three years, and her heart sunk trembling in her bosom 
 with a new and awful fear. It seemed as if she had sud 
 denly awakened from a delusive dream of happiness and 
 security, to find herself standing at the brink of a fearful 
 precipice. 
 
 " What can I do ? What shall I do 1" were questions 
 repeated over and over again; but, alas ! she could find no 
 answer upon which her troubled heart could repose with 
 confidence. How could she approach her husband upon 
 such a subject? She felt that she could not allude to it. 
 
 Month after month, and year after year, she watched 
 with an anguish of spirit that paled her cheek, and stole 
 away the brightness from her eye, the slow, but sure pro 
 gress of the destroyer. Alas ! how did hope fail fail 
 fail, until it lived in her bosom but a faint, feeble, flicker 
 ing ray. At last she ventured to remonstrate, and me
 
 140 FAILING HOPE. 
 
 with anger and repulse. When this subsided, and her 
 husband began to reflect more deeply upon his course, he 
 \vas humbled in spirit, and sought to heal the wound his 
 conduct and his words had made. Then came promises 
 of amendment, and Mrs. Martin fondly hoped all would 
 be well again. The light again came back to her heart. 
 But it did not long remain. Martin still permitted him 
 self to indulge in wine, which soon excited the desire for 
 stronger stimulants, and he again indulged, and again 
 fell. 
 
 Ten times had he thus fallen, each time repenting, and 
 each time restoring a degree of confidence to the heart 
 of his wife, by promises of future abstinence. Gradually 
 did hope continue to grow weaker and weaker, at each 
 relapse, until it had nearly failed. 
 
 " There is no hope," she said to herself, mournfully, 
 as she sat in deep thought, on the evening in which occur 
 red the scene we have just described. " He has tried so 
 often, and fallen again at every effort. There is no hope 
 no hope !" 
 
 It was an hour after Mr. Martin had retired to his 
 chamber, that his wife went up softly, and first went into 
 Emma's room. The child was asleep, and there was on 
 her innocent face a quiet smile, as if pleasant images were 
 resting upon her mind. A soft kiss was imprinted on her 
 fair forehead, and then Mrs. Martin went into her own 
 chamber. She found that her husband had retired to bed 
 and was asleep. 
 
 But few hours of refreshing slumber visited the eye 
 lids of the almost despairing wife. Towards morning, 
 however, she sank away into a deep sleep. When she 
 awoke from this, it was an hour after daylight. Her hus 
 band was up and dressed, and sat beside the bed, looking 
 into her face with an expression of subdued, but calm and 
 tender affection. 
 
 " Emma," he said, taking her hand, as soon as she was 
 fairly awakened, " can you again have confidence in me, 
 or has hope failed altogether ?" 
 
 Mrs. Martin did not reply, but looked at her husband 
 steadily and inquiringly. 
 
 " I understand you," he said, " you have almost, if not 
 altogether ceased to hope. I do not wonder at it. If I
 
 FAILING HOPE. 141 
 
 had not so often mocked your generous confidence, I 
 would again assure you that all will be well. I see that, 
 what I say does not make the warm blood bound to your 
 face, as once it did. I will not use idle words to convince 
 you. But one thing I will say. I have been, for some 
 time past, conscious, that it was dangerous for me to touch 
 wine, or ale, or anything that stimulates, as they. do. 
 They only revive an appetite for stronger drinks, while 
 they take away a measure of self-control. I have, there 
 fore, most solemnly promised myself, that I will never 
 again touch or taste any spirituous liquors, wine, malt, or 
 cider. Nor will I again attend any convivial parties, 
 where these things are used. Hereafter, I shall act upon 
 the total-abstinence principle for only in total-abstinence, 
 is there safety for one like me." 
 
 There was something so solemn and earnest in the 
 manner of her husband, that Mrs. Martin's drooping 
 spirits began to revive. Again did her eye brighten, and 
 her cheek kindle. Then came a gush of tears attesting 
 the power of a new impulse. The failing hope was 
 renewed ! 
 
 And day after day, week after week, and month after 
 month, did that hope strengthen and gain confidence. 
 Years have passed, since that total-abstinence resolution 
 was taken, and not once during *he time has Martin been 
 tempted to violate it. Yet, is he vividly conscious, that 
 only in total-abstinence from everything that can intoxi 
 cate is there safety for him.
 
 TAKING TOLL. 
 
 MR. SMITH kept a drug shop in the little village of 
 
 Q , which was situated a few miles from Lancaster. It 
 
 was his custom to visit the latter place every week or two, 
 in order to purchase such articles as were needed from time 
 to time in his business. One day, he drove off towards 
 Lancaster, in his wagon, in which, among other things, 
 was a gallon demijohn. On reaching the town, he called 
 first at a grocer's with the inquiry, 
 
 " Have you any common wine ?" 
 
 " How common ?" asked the grocer. 
 
 " About a dollar a gallon. I want it for antimonial 
 wine." 
 
 " Yes ; I have some just fit for that, and not much else, 
 which I will sell at a dollar." 
 
 " Very well. Give me a gallon," said Mr. Smith. 
 
 The demijohn was brought in from the wagon and filled. 
 And then Mr. Smith drove off to attend to other business. 
 Among the things to be done on that day, was to see a man 
 who lived half a mile from Lancaster. Before going out 
 on this errand, Mr. Smith stopped at the house of his par 
 ticular friend, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones happened not to be 
 in, but Mrs. Jones was a pleasant woman, and he chatted 
 with her for ten minutes, or so. As he stepped into his 
 wagon, it struck him that the gallon demijohn was a little in 
 his way, and so, lifting it out, he said to Mrs. Jones, 
 
 " I wish you would take care of this until I come back." 
 
 " ! certainly," replied Mrs. Jones, " with the greatest 
 pleasure." 
 
 And so the demijohn was left in the lady's care. 
 
 Some time afterwards Mr. Jones came in, and among 
 the first things that attracted his attention, was the strange 
 demijohn. 
 
 " What is this ?" was his natural inquiry. 
 
 " Something that Mr. Smith left." 
 (142)
 
 TAKING TOLL. 143 
 
 " Mr. Smith from Q ?" 
 
 c< yes." 
 
 " I wonder what he has here ?" said Mr. Jones, taking 
 hold of the demijohn. " It feels heavy." 
 
 The cork was unhesitatingly removed, and the mouth of 
 the vessel brought in contact with the smelling organ of 
 Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Wine, as I live !" fell from his lips. " Bring me a 
 glass." 
 
 " ! no, Mr. Jones. I wouldn't touch his wine," said 
 Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " Bring me a glass. Do you think I'm going to let a 
 gallon of wine pass my way without exacting toll ? No 
 no ! Bring me a glass." 
 
 The glass, a half-pint tumbler, was produced, and nearly 
 filled with the execrable stuff as guiltless of grape juice 
 as a dyer's vat which was poured down the throat of Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 " Pretty fair wine, that ; only a little rough," said Mr. 
 Jones, smacking his lips. 
 
 "It's a shame!" remarked Mrs. Jones, warmly, "for 
 you to do so." 
 
 " I only took toll," said the husband, laughing. " No 
 harm in that, I'm sure." 
 
 " Rather heavy toll, it strikes me," replied Mrs. Jones. 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Smith, having completed most of his 
 business for that day, stopped at a store where he wished 
 two or three articles put up. While these were in prepara 
 tion he said to the keeper of the store, 
 
 " I wish you would let your lad Tom step over for me to 
 Mr. Jones's. I left a demijohn of common wine there, 
 which I bought for the purpose of making it into antimonial 
 wine. 
 
 " ! certainly," replied the store-keeper. " Here, Tom !" 
 and he called for his boy. 
 
 Tom came, and the store-keeper said to him, 
 
 " Run over to Mr. Jones's and get a jug of antimonial 
 wine which Mr. Smith left there. Go quickly, for Mr. 
 Smith is in a hurry." 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the lad, and away he ran. 
 
 After Mr. Jones had disposed of his half a pint of wine, 
 he thought his stomach had rather a curious sensation, 
 
 18
 
 144 TAKING TOLL. 
 
 which is not much to be wondered at, considering the 
 stuff with which he had burdened it. 
 
 " I wonder if that really is wine ?" said he, turning 
 from the window at which he had seated himself, and 
 taking up the demijohn again. The cork was removed, and 
 his nose applied to the mouth of the huge bottle. 
 
 " Yes, it's wine ; but I'll vow it's not much to brag of." 
 And the cork was once more replaced. 
 
 Just then came a knock at the door. Mrs. Jones opened 
 it, and the store-keeper's lad appeared. 
 
 " Mr. Smith says, please let me have the jug of anti- 
 monial wine he left here." 
 
 " Antimonial wine !" exclaimed Mr. Jones, his chin 
 falling, and a paleness instantly overspread his face. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the lad. 
 
 " Antimonial wine !" fell again, but huskily, from the 
 quivering lips of Mr. Jones. " Send for the doctor, Kitty, 
 quick ! Oh ! How sick I feel ! Send for the doctor, or 
 I'll be a dead man in half an hour !" 
 
 " Antimonial wine ! Dreadful !" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, 
 now as pale and frightened as her husband. " Do you 
 feel sick ?" 
 
 "0! yes. As sick as death!" And the appearance 
 of Mr. Jones by no means belied his words. Send for the 
 doctor instantly, or it may be too late." 
 
 Mrs. Jones ran first in one direction and then in another, 
 and finally, after telling the boy to run for the doctor, called 
 Jane, her single domestic, and started her on the same 
 errand. 
 
 Off sprung Jane at a speed outstripping that of John 
 Gilpin. Fortunately, the doctor was in his office, and he 
 came with all the rapidity a proper regard to the dignity of 
 his profession would permit, armed with a stomach pump and 
 a dozen antidotes. On arriving at the house of Mr. Jones 
 he found the sufferer lying upon a bed, ghastly pale, and 
 retching terribly. 
 
 " ! doctor ! I'm afraid it's all over with me !" gasped 
 the patient. 
 
 " How did it happen ? what have you taken ?" inquired 
 the doctor, eagerly. 
 
 " I took, by mistake, nearly a pint of antimonial wine." 
 
 " Then it must be removed instantly," said the doctor ;
 
 TAKING TOLL. 147 
 
 and down the sick man's throat went one end of a long, 
 flexible, India rubber tube, and pump ! pump ! pump ! 
 went the doctor's hand at the other end. The result was 
 very palpable. About a pint of reddish fluid, strongly 
 smelling of wine, came up, after which the instrument was 
 withdrawn. 
 
 " There," said the doctor, " I guess that will do. Now 
 let me give you an antidote." And a nauseous dose of 
 something or other was mixed up and poured down, to 
 take the place of what had just been removed. 
 
 " Do you feel any better now ?" inquired the doctor, as 
 he sat holding the pulse of the sick man, and scanning, 
 with a professional eye, his pale face, that was covered with 
 a clammy perspiration. 
 
 " A little," was the faint reply. " Do you think all 
 danger is past?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so. The antidote I have given you will 
 neutralize the effect of the drug, as far as it has passed into 
 the system." 
 
 " I feel as weak as a rag," said the patient. " I am 
 sure I could not bear my own weight. What a powerful 
 effect it had !" 
 
 " Don't think of it," returned the doctor. " Compose 
 yourself. There is now no danger to be apprehended what 
 ever." 
 
 The wild flight of Jane through the street, and the 
 hurried movements of the doctor, did not fail to attract 
 attention. Inquiry followed, and it soon became noised 
 about that Mr. Jones had taken poison. 
 
 Mr. Smith was just stepping into his wagon, when a 
 man came up and said to him, 
 
 " Have you heard the news ?" 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 " Mr. Jones has taken poison !" 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Poison !" 
 
 " Who ! Mr. Jones ?" 
 
 " Yes. And they say he cannot live." 
 
 " Dreadful ! I must see him." And without waiting 
 for further information, Mr. Smith spoke to his horse and 
 rode off at a gallop for the residence of his friend. Mrs. 
 Jones met him at the door, looking very anxious.
 
 ]48 TAKING TOLL. 
 
 " How is he ?" inquired Mr. Smith, in a serious voice. 
 
 " A little better, I thank you. The doctor has taken it 
 all out of his stomach. Will you walk up ?" 
 
 Mr. Smith ascended to the chamber where lay Mr. Jones, 
 looking as white as a sheet. The doctor was still by his 
 side. 
 
 " Ah ! my friend," said the sick man, in a feeble voice, 
 as Mr. Smith took his hand, " that antimonial wine of 
 yours has nearly been the death of me." 
 
 " What antimonial wine?" inquired Mr. Smith, not un 
 derstanding his friend. 
 
 " The wine you left here in the gallon demijohn." 
 
 " That wasn't antimonial wine !" 
 
 " It was not ?" fell from the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 " Why, no ! It was only wine that I had bought for the 
 purpose of making antimonial wine." 
 
 Mr. Jones rose up in bed. 
 
 " Not antimonial wine ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Why the boy said it was." 
 
 " Then he didn't know any thing about it. It was no 
 thing but some common wine which I had bought." 
 
 Mr. Jones took a long breath. The doctor arose from 
 the bedside, and Mr. Jones exclaimed, 
 
 "Well, I never!" 
 
 Then came a grave silence, in which one looked at the 
 other, doubtingly. 
 
 " Good-day ;" said the doctor, and went down stairs. 
 
 " So you have been drinking my wine, it seems," laughed 
 Mr. Smith, as soon as the man with the stomach pump had 
 retired. 
 
 " I only took a little toll," said Mr. Jones, back into 
 whose pale face the color was beginning to come, and 
 through whose almost paralyzed nerves was again flowing 
 from the brain a healthy influence. " But don't say any 
 thing about it! Don't for the world !" 
 
 "I won't, on one condition," said Mr. Smith, whose 
 words were scarcely coherent, so strongly was he convulsed 
 with laughter. 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " You must become a teetotaller."
 
 TAKING TOLL. 149 
 
 " Can't do that," jeplied Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Give me a day or two to make up my mind." 
 
 " Very well. And now, good bye ; the sun is nearly 
 down, and it will be night before I get home." 
 
 And Mr. Smith shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Jones, 
 and hurriedly retired, trying, but in vain, to leave the 
 house in a grave and dignified manner. Long before Mr. 
 Jones had made up his mind to join the teetotallers, the 
 story of his taking toll was all over the town, and for the 
 next two or three months he had his own time of it. After 
 that, it became an old story.
 
 "THOU ART THE MAN!" 
 
 " How can you reconcile it to your conscience to con 
 tinue in your present business, Mr. Muddler ?" asked a 
 venerable clergyman of a tavern-keeper, as the two walked 
 home from the funeral of a young man who had died 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I find no difficulty on that score," replied the tavern- 
 keeper, in a confident tone : " My business is as neces 
 sary to the public as that of any other man." 
 
 " That branch of it, which regards the comfort and ac 
 commodation of travellers, I will grant to be necessary. 
 But there is another portion of it which, you must pardon 
 me for saying, is not only uncalled for by the real wants 
 of the community, but highly detrimental to health and 
 good morals." 
 
 " And pray, Mr. Mildman, to what portion of my busi 
 ness do you ailude ?" 
 
 " I allude to that part of it which embraces the sale of 
 intoxicating drinks." 
 
 " Indeed ! the very best part of my business. But, cer 
 tainly, you do not pretend to say that I am to be held 
 accountable for the unavoidable excesses which sometimes 
 grow out of the use of liquors as a beverage?" 
 
 " I certainly must say, that, in my opinion, a very large 
 share of the responsibility rests upon your shoulders. You 
 not only make it a business to sell liquors, but you use 
 every device in your power to induce men to come and 
 drink them. You invent hew compounds with new and 
 attractive names, in order to induce the indifferent or the 
 lovers of variety, to frequent your bar-room. In this way, 
 you too often draw the weak into an excess of self-indul 
 gence, that ends, alas ! in drunkenness and final ruin of 
 body and soul. You are not only responsible for all this, 
 Mr. Muddler, but you bear the weight of a fearful re 
 sponsibility !" 
 
 " I cannot see the subject in that light, Mr. Mildman," 
 the tavern-keeper said, rather gravely. " Mine is an 
 honest and honourable calling, and it is my duty to my 
 
 (150)
 
 "THOU ART THE MAN!" 151 
 
 family and to society, to follow it with diligence and a 
 spirit of enterprise." 
 
 " May I ask you a plain question, Mr. Muddler?" 
 
 " Oh yes, certainly ! as many as you please." 
 
 " Can that calling be an honest and honourable one 
 which takes sustenance from the community, and gives 
 back nothing in return ?' 
 
 " I do not know that I understand the nature of your 
 question, Mr. Mildman." 
 
 " Consider then society as a man in a larger form, as it 
 really is. In this great body, as in the lesser body of 
 man, there are various functions of use and a reciprocity 
 between the whole. Each function receives a portion of 
 life from the others, and gives back its own proper share 
 for the good of the whole. The hand does not act for 
 itself alone receiving strength and selfishly appropriating 
 it without returning its quota of good to the general sys 
 tem. And so of the heart, and lungs, and every other 
 organ in the whole body. Reverse the order and how 
 soon is the entire system diseased ! Now, does that mem 
 ber of the great body of the people act honestly and 
 honourably, who regularly receives his portion of good 
 from the general social system, and gives nothing back in 
 return ?" 
 
 To this the landlord made no reply, and Mr. Mildman 
 continued 
 
 " But there is still a stronger view to be taken. Sup 
 pose a member of the human body is diseased a limb, 
 for instance, in a partial state of mortification. Here there 
 is a reception of life from the whole system into that limb, 
 and a constant giving back of disease that gradually per 
 vades the entire body ; and, unless that body possesses 
 extraordinary vital energy, in the end destroys it. In like 
 manner, if in the larger body there be one member who 
 takes his share of life from the whole, and gives back 
 nothing but a poisonous principle, whose effect is disease 
 and death, surely he cannot be called a good member 
 nor honest, nor honourable." 
 
 " And pray, Mr. Mildman," asked the tavern-keeper, 
 with warmth, " where will you find, in society, such an 
 ndividual as you describe ?" 
 The minister paused at this question, and looked his
 
 152 "THOU ART THE MAN!" 
 
 companion steadily in the face. Then raising his long, 
 thin finger to give force to his remark, he said with deep 
 emphasis 
 
 " Thou art the man !" 
 
 " Me, Mr. Mildman ! me !" exclaimed the tavern-keeper, 
 in surprise and displeasure. " You surely cannot be in 
 earnest." 
 
 " I utter but a solemn truth, Mr. Muddler: such is your 
 position in society ! You receive food, and clothing, and 
 comforts and luxuries of various kinds for yourself and 
 family from the social body, and what do you give back 
 for all these 1 A poison to steal away the health and hap 
 piness of that social body. You are far worse than a per 
 fectly dead member you exist upon the great body as a 
 moral gangrene. Reflect calmly upon this subject. Go 
 home, and in the silence of your own chamber, enter into 
 unimpassioned and solemn communion with your heart. 
 Be honest with yourself. Exclude the bias of selfish feel 
 ings and selfish interests, and honestly define to yourself 
 your true position." 
 
 " But, Mr. Mildman " 
 
 The two men had paused nearly in front of Mr. Mud 
 dler's splendid establishment, and were standing there 
 when the tavern-keeper commenced a reply to the min 
 ister's last remarks. He had uttered but the first word or 
 two, when he was interrupted by a pale, thinly-dressed 
 female, who held a little girl by the hand. She came up 
 before him and looked him. steadily in the face for a mo 
 ment or two. 
 
 " Mr. Muddler, I believe," she said. 
 
 " Yes, madam, that is my name," was his reply. 
 
 " I have come, Mr. Muddler," the woman then said, 
 with an effort to smile and affect a polite air, " to thank 
 you for a present I received last night." 
 
 " Thank me, madam ! There certainly must be some 
 mistake. I never made you a present. Indeed, I have 
 not the pleasure of your acquaintance." 
 
 " You said your name was Muddler, I believe?" 
 
 " Yes, madam, as I told you before, that is my name " 
 
 " Then you are the man. You made my little girl, here 
 a present 'also, and we have both come w'ith our thanks.* 1 
 
 " You deal in riddles, madam, Speak out plainly."
 
 "THOU ART THE MAN!" 153 
 
 " As I said before," the woman replied, with bitter irony 
 in her tones, " I have come with my little girl to thank 
 you for the present we received last night ; a present of 
 wretchedness and abuse." 
 
 " I am still as far from understanding you as ever," the 
 tavern-keeper said " I never abused you, madam. I do 
 not even know you." 
 
 " But you know my husband, sir ! You have enticed 
 him to your bar, and for his money have given him a 
 poison that has changed him from one of the best and 
 kindest of men, into a demon. To you, then, I owe all 
 the wretchedness I have suffered, and the brutal treat 
 ment I shared with my helpless children last night. It is 
 for this that I have come to thank yon." 
 
 " Surely, madam, you must be beside yourself. I have 
 nothing to do with your husband." 
 
 " Nothing to do with him !" the woman exclaimed, in an 
 excited tone. " Would to heaven that it were so ! Before 
 you opened your accursed gin palace, he was a sober 
 man, and the best and kindest of husbands but, enticed by 
 you, your advertisement and display of fancy drinks, he 
 was tempted within the charmed circle of your bar-room. 
 From that moment began his downfall ; and now he is 
 lost to self-control lost to feeling lost to humanity !" 
 
 As the woman said this, she burst into tears, and then 
 turned and walked slowly away. 
 
 " To that painful illustration of the truth of what I have 
 said," the minister remarked, as the two stood once more 
 alone, " I have nothing to add. May the lesson sink deep 
 into your heart. Between you and that woman's husband 
 existed a regular business transaction. Did it result in a 
 mutual benefit 1 Answer that question to your own con 
 science." 
 
 How the tavern-keeper answered it, we know not. But 
 if he received no benefit from the double lesson, we trust 
 that others may ; and in the hope that the practical truth 
 we have endeavoured briefly to illustrate, will fall some 
 where upon good ground, we cast it forth for the benefit 
 of our fellow-men. 
 
 19
 
 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. 
 
 " HERE, Jane," said a father to his little girl not over 
 eleven years of age, " go over to the shop and buy me a 
 pint of brandy." 
 
 At the same time he handed her a quarter of a dollar. 
 The child took the money and the bottle, and as she did 
 so, looked her father in the face with an earnest, sad ex 
 pression. But he did not seem to observe it, although he 
 perceived it, and felt it; for he understood its meaning. 
 The little girl lingered, as if reluctant, from some reason, 
 to go on her errand. 
 
 " Did you hear what I said ?" the father asked, angrily, 
 and with a frowning brow, as he observed this. 
 
 Jane glided from the room and went over to the shop, 
 hiding, as she passed through the street, the bottle under 
 her apron. There she obtained the liquor, and returned 
 with it in a few minutes. As she reached the bottle to 
 her father, she looked at him again with the same sad, 
 earnest look, which he observed. It annoyed and anger 
 ed him. 
 
 " What do you mean by looking at me in that way ? 
 Ha !" he said, in a loud, angry tone. 
 
 Jane shrunk away, and passed into the next room, 
 where her mother lay sick. She had been sick for some 
 time, and as they were poor, and her husband given to 
 drink, she had sorrow and privation added to her bodily 
 sufferings. As her little girl came in, she went up to the 
 side of her bed, and, bending over it, leaned her head 
 upon her hand. She did not make any remark, nor did 
 her mother speak to her, until she observed the tears 
 trickling through her fingers. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear 1" she then asked, ten 
 derly. S~* 
 
 The little girl raised her hasra, endeavouring to dry up 
 her tears as she did so. / 
 
 (154)
 
 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. 155 
 
 * I feel so bad, mother," she replied. 
 
 " And why do you feel bad, my child ?" 
 
 " Oh, I always feel so bad when father sends me over 
 to the shop for brandy ; and I had to go just now. I 
 wanted to ask him to buy you some nice grapes and 
 oranges with the quarter of a dollar they would taste so 
 good to you but he seemed to know what I was going 
 to say, and looked at me so cross that I was afraid to 
 speak. I wish he would not drink any more brandy. It 
 makes him cross ; and then how many nice things he 
 might buy for you with the money it takes for liquor." 
 
 The poor mother had no words of comfort to offer her 
 little girl, older in thought than in years ; for no comfort 
 did she herself feel in view of the circumstances that 
 troubled her child. She only said laying her hand upon 
 the child's head 
 
 " Try and not think about it, my dear ; it only troubles 
 you, and your trouble cannot make it any better." 
 
 But Jane could not help thinking about it, try as hard 
 as she would. She went to a Sabbath school, in which 
 a Temperance society had been formed, and every Sab 
 bath she heard the subject of intemperance discussed, and 
 its dreadful consequences detailed. But more than all 
 this, she had the daily experience of a drunkard's child. 
 In this experience, how much of heart-touching misery 
 was involved ! how much of privation how much of 
 the anguish of a bruised spirit. Who can know the 
 weight that lies, like a heavy burden, upon the heart of a 
 drunkard's child! None but the child for language is 
 powerless to convey it. 
 
 On the next morning, the father of little Jane went 
 away to his work, and she was left alone with her mother 
 and her younger sister. They were very poor, and could 
 not afford to employ any one to do the house-work, and 
 so, young as she was, while her mother was sick, Jane 
 had everything to do : the cooking, and cleaning, and 
 even the washing and ironing a hard task, indeed, for 
 her little hands. But she never murmured never seemed 
 to think that she was overburdened. How cheerfully 
 would all have been done, if her father's smiles had only 
 fallen like sunshine upon her heart ! But that face, into 
 which her eyes looked so often and so anxiously, was
 
 156 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. 
 
 ever hid in clouds clouds arising from the consciousness 
 that he was abusing his family while seeking his own base 
 gratification, and from perceiving the evidences of his 
 evil works stamped on all things around him. 
 
 As Jane passed frequently through her mother's room 
 during the morning, pausing almost every time to ask if 
 she wanted anything ; she saw, too plainly, that she was 
 not as well as on the day before that she had a high 
 fever, indicated to her by her hot skin and constant re 
 quest for cool water. 
 
 " I wish I had an orange," the poor woman said, as 
 Jane came up to her bed-side, for the twentieth time, " it 
 would taste so good to me." 
 
 She had been thinking about an orange all the morn 
 ing ; and notwithstanding her effort to drive the thought 
 from her mind, the form of an orange would ever picture 
 itself before her, and its grateful flavour ever seem about 
 to thrill upon her taste. At last she uttered her wish 
 not so much with the hope of having it gratified, as from 
 an involuntary impulse to speak out her desire. 
 
 There was not a single cent in the house, for the father 
 rarely trusted his wife with money he could not confide 
 in her judicious expenditure of it ! 
 
 "Let me go and buy you an orange, mother," Jane 
 said ; " they have oranges at the shop." 
 
 " I have no change, my dear ; and if I had, I should 
 not think it right to spend four or five cents for an orange, 
 when we have so little. Get me a cool drink of water ; 
 that will do now." 
 
 Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of cool water, 
 and she drank it off eagerly. Then she lay back upon 
 her pillow with a sigh, and her little girl went out to 
 attend to the household duties that devolved upon her. 
 But all the while Jane thought of the orange, and of how 
 she should get it for her mother. 
 
 When her father came nome to dinner, he looked 
 crosser than he did in the morning. He sat down to the 
 table and eat his dinner in moody silence, and then arose 
 to depart, without so much as asking after his sick 
 wife, or going into her chamber. As he moved towards 
 the door, his hat already on his head, Jane went up to
 
 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. 157 
 
 him, and looking timidly in his face, said, with a hesita 
 ting voice 
 
 " Mother wants an orange so bad. Won't you give 
 me some money to buy her one ?" 
 
 " No, I will not ! Your mother had better be thinking 
 about something else than wasting money for oranges !" 
 was the angry reply, as the father passed out, and shut 
 the door hard after him. 
 
 Jane stood for a moment, frightened at the angry vehe 
 mence of her father, and then burst into tears. She said 
 nothing to her mother of what had passed, but after the 
 agitation of her mind had somewhat subsided, began to 
 cast about in her thoughts for some plan by which she 
 might obtain an orange. At last it occurred to her, that 
 at the shop where she got liquor for her father, they 
 bought rags and old iron. 
 
 " How much do you give a pound for rags 1" she asked, 
 in a minute or two after the idea had occurred to her, 
 standing at the counter of the shop. 
 
 " Three cents a pound," was the reply. 
 
 " How much for old iron ?" 
 
 " A cent a pound." 
 
 "What's the price of them oranges?" 
 
 " Four cents apiece." 
 
 With this information, Jane hurried back. After she 
 had cleared away the dinner-table, she went down into 
 the cellar and looked up all the old bits of iron that she 
 could find. Then she searched the yard, and found some 
 eight or ten rusty nails, an old bolt, and a broken hinge. 
 These she laid away in a little nook in the cellar. After 
 wards she gathered together all the old rags that she 
 could find about the house, and in the cellar, and laid 
 them with her old iron. But she saw plainly enough that 
 her iron would not weigh over two pounds, nor her rags 
 over a quarter of a pound. If time would have permit 
 ted, she would have gone into the street to look for old 
 iron, but this she could not do ; and disappointed at not 
 being able to get the orange for her mother, she went 
 about her work during the afternoon with sad and 
 desponding thoughts and feelings. 
 
 It was summer time, and her father came home from 
 his work before it was dark.
 
 158 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. 
 
 " Go and get me a pint of brandy," he said to Jane, in 
 a tone that sounded harsh and angry to the child, hand 
 ing her at the same time a quarter of a dollar. Since 
 the day before he had taken a pint of brandy, and none 
 but the best would suit him. 
 
 She took the money and the bottle, and went over to 
 the shop. Wistfully she looked at the tempting oranges 
 in the window, as she gave the money for the liquor, and 
 thought how glad her poor mother would be to have one. 
 
 As she was hurrying back, she saw a thick rusty iron 
 ring lying in the street : she picked it up, and kept on her 
 way. It felt heavy, and her heart bounded with the 
 thought that now she could buy the orange for her mo 
 ther. The piece of old iron was dropped in the yard, as 
 she passed through. After her father had taken a dram, 
 he sat down to his supper. While he was eating it, Jane 
 went into the cellar and brought out into the yard her 
 little treasure of scrap iron. As she passed backwards 
 and forwards before the door facing which her father sat, 
 he observed her, and felt a sudden curiosity to know what 
 she was doing. He went softly to the window, and as he 
 did so, he saw her gathering the iron, which she had 
 placed in a little pile, into her apron. Then she rose up 
 quickly, and passed out of the yard-gate into the street. 
 
 The father went back to his supper, but his appetite 
 was gone. There was that in the act of his child, simple 
 as it was, that moved his feelings, in spite of himself. All 
 at once he thought of the orange she had asked for her 
 mother ; and he felt a conviction that it was to buy an 
 orange that Jane was now going to sell the iron she had 
 evidently been collecting since dinner-time. 
 
 " How selfish and wicked I am !" he said to himself, 
 almost involuntarily. 
 
 In a few minutes Jane returned, and with her hand 
 under her apron, passed through the room where he sat 
 into her mother's chamber. An impulse, almost irresisti 
 ble, caused him to follow her in a few moments after. 
 
 " It is so grateful !" he heard his wife say, as he opened 
 the door. 
 
 On entering her chamber, he found her sitting up in bed 
 eating the orange, while little Jane stood by her looking 
 into her face with an air of subdued, yet heartfelt grati
 
 THE TOUCHING REPROOF. ]59 
 
 fication. All this he saw at a glance, yet did not seem 
 to see, for he pretended to be searching for something, 
 which, apparently obtained, he left the room and the 
 nouse, with feelings of acute pain and self-upbraidings. 
 
 " Come, let us go and see these cold-water men," said 
 a companion, whom he met a few steps from his own 
 door. " They are carrying all the world before them." 
 
 " Very well, come along." 
 
 And the two men bent their steps towards Temperance 
 Hall. 
 
 When little Jane's father turned from the door of that 
 place, his name was signed to the pledge, and his heart 
 fixed to abide by it. On his way home, he saw some 
 grapes in a window, he bought some of them, and a 
 couple of oranges and lemons. When he came home, he 
 went into his wife's chamber, and opening the paper that 
 contained the first fruits of his sincere repentance, laid 
 them before her, and said, with tenderness, while the 
 moisture dimmed his eyes 
 
 " I thought these would taste good to you, Mary, and 
 so I bought them." 
 
 " O, William !" and the poor wife started, and looked 
 up into her husband's face with an expression of surprise 
 and trembling hope. 
 
 " Mary," and he took her hand, tenderly "I have 
 signed the pledge to-night, and I will keep it, by the help 
 of Heaven !" 
 
 The sick wife raised herself up quickly, and bent over 
 towards her husband, eagerly extending her hands. Then, 
 as he drew his arm around her, she let her head fall upon 
 his bosom, with an emotion of delight, such as had not 
 moved over the surface of her stricken heart for years. 
 
 The pledge taken was the total-abstinence pledge, and 
 it has never been violated by him, and what is better, we 
 are confident never will. How much of human hope and 
 happiness is involved in that simple pledge !
 
 THE TEMPERANCE SONG. 
 
 " DEAR father," said Mary Edwards, " don't go out 
 this evening !" and the young girl, who had scarcely num 
 bered fourteen years, laid her hand upon the arm of her 
 parent. 
 
 But Mr. Edwards shook her off impatiently, muttering, 
 as he did so, 
 
 " Can't I go where I please ?" 
 
 " ! yes, father !" urged Mary, drawing up to him 
 again, notwithstanding her repulse. " But there is going 
 to be a storm, and I wouldn't go out." 
 
 " Storm ! Nonsense ! That's only your pretence. But 
 I'll be home soon long before the rain, if it comes at all." 
 
 And, saying this, Mr. Edwards turned from his daughter 
 and left the house. As soon as she was alone, Mary sat 
 down and commenced weeping. There had been sad 
 changes since she was ten years old. In that time, her 
 father had fallen into habits of intemperance, and not only 
 wasted his substance, but abused his family ; and, sadder 
 still, her mother had died broken-hearted, leaving her alone 
 in the world with a drunken father. 
 
 The young girl's trials, under these painful circumstances, 
 were great. Night after night her father would come home 
 intoxicated, and it was so rare a thing for her to get a kind 
 word from him, that a tone of affection from his lips would 
 move her instantly to tears. Daily the work of declension 
 went on. Drunkenness led to idleness, and gradually Mr. 
 Edwards and his child sunk lower and lower in the scale 
 of comfort. The pleasant home where they had lived for 
 years was given up, and in small, poorly furnished rooms, 
 in a narrow street, they hid themselves from observation. 
 After this change, Mr. Edwards moved along his downward 
 way, more rapidly ; earning less and drinking more. 
 
 Mary grew old fast. Under severe trials and afflictions, 
 her mind rapidly matured ; and her affection for her father 
 grew stronger and stronger, as she realized more and more 
 160
 
 THE TEMPERANCE SONG. 161 
 
 fully the dreadful nature and ultimate tendency of the in 
 fatuation by which he was led. 
 
 At last, in the anguish of her concern, she ventured up 
 on remonstrance. This brought only angry repulse, adding 
 bitterness to her cup of sorrow. The appearance of a 
 storm, on the evening to which we have alluded, gave 
 Mary an excuse for urging her father not to go out. How 
 her remonstrance was received has been seen. While the 
 poor girl sat weeping, the distant rolling of thunder indicated 
 the approach of the storm to which she had referred. But 
 she cared little for it now. Her father had gone out. She 
 had spoken of it only with the hope that he might have 
 been induced to remain with her. Now that he was away, 
 the agitation within was too great to leave any concern for 
 the turbulent elements without. 
 
 On leaving his home, Mr. Edwards, who had not taken 
 any liquor for three or four hours, and whose appetite was 
 sharp for the accustomed stimulus, walked quickly in the 
 direction of a drinking-house where he usually spent his 
 evenings. On entering, he found that there was a little 
 commotion in the bar-room. A certain individual, not over 
 friendly to landlords, had intruded himself; and, his charac 
 ter being known, the inmates were disposed to have a little 
 sport with him. 
 
 " Come now, old fellow !" said one, just as Edwards 
 came in, " mount this table and make us a first rate 
 temperance speech." 
 
 " Do ; and I'll treat you to the stiffest glass of whisky 
 toddy the landlord can mix," added another. " Or perhaps 
 you'd like a mint julep or gin cocktail better? Any thing 
 you please. Make the speech and call for the liquor. I'll 
 stand the treat." 
 
 " What d'ye say, landlord ? Shall he make the speech ?" 
 said another, who was eager for sport. 
 
 " Please yourselves," replied the landlord, " and you'll 
 please me." 
 
 " Very well. Now for the speech, old fellow ! Here ! 
 mount this table." And two or three of the most forward 
 took hold of his arms. 
 
 " I'm not just in the humor for making a speech," said 
 the temperance man, " but, if it will please you as well, 
 I'll sing you a song." 
 
 20
 
 162 THE TEMPERANCE SONG. 
 
 "Give us a song then. Any thing to accommodate. But 
 come, let's liquor first." 
 
 " No !" said the other firmly, " I must sing the song first, 
 if I sing it at all." 
 
 " Don't you think your pipes \vill be clearer for a little 
 drink of some kind or other." 
 
 " Perhaps they would," was replied. " So, provided 
 you have no objection, I'll take a glass of cold water if 
 such a thing is known in this place." 
 
 The glass of water was presented, and then the man, who 
 was somewhat advanced in years, prepared to give the 
 promised song. All stood listening attentively, Edwards 
 among the rest. The voice of the old man was low and 
 tremulous, yet every word was uttered distinctly, and with 
 a pathos which showed that the meaning was felt. The 
 following well-known temperance song was the one that he 
 sung ; and while his voice filled the bar-room every other 
 sound was hushed. 
 
 " Where are the friends that to me were so dear, 
 Long, long ago long, long ago 7 
 
 Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer, 
 Long, long ago long ago ? 
 
 Friends that I loved in the grave arc laid low, 
 
 Hopes that I cherished are fled from me now, 
 
 I am degraded, for rum was my foe- 
 Long, long ago long ago ! 
 
 Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head, 
 
 Long, long ago long, long ago. 
 Oh ! how I wept when I knew she was dead ! 
 
 Long, long ago long ago. 
 She was an angel ! my love and my guide ! 
 Vainly to save me from ruin she tried ; 
 Poor, broken-hearted ! 'twas well that she died- -j 
 
 Long, long ago long ago. 
 
 " Let me look back on the days of my youth, 
 
 Long, long ago long, long ago, 
 I was no stranger to virtue and truth, 
 
 Long, long ago long ago. 
 Oh ! for the hopes that were pure as the day ! 
 Oh ! for the joys that were purer than they ! 
 Oh ! for the hours that I've squandered away 
 
 Long, long ago long ago." 
 
 The silence that pervaded the room, when the old man's
 
 THE TEMPERANCE SONG. 163 
 
 voice died, or might rather be said, sobbed away, was as 
 the silence of death. His own heart was touched, for he 
 wiped his eyes, from which tears had started. Pausing 
 scarcely a moment, he moved slowly from the room, and 
 left his audience to their own reflections. There was not 
 one of them who was not more or less affected ; but the 
 deepest impression had been made on the heart of Edwards. 
 The song seemed as if it had been made for him. The 
 second verse, particularly, went thrilling to the very centre 
 of his feelings. 
 
 " Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head !" 
 
 How suddenly arose before him the sorrow-stricken form 
 of the wife of his youth at these words ! and when the old 
 man's voice faltered on the line 
 
 " Poor, broken-hearted ! 'twas well that she died !" 
 
 the anguish of his spirit was so great, that he only kept 
 himself from sobbing aloud by a strong effort at self-con 
 trol. Ere the spell was broken, or a word uttered by any 
 one, he' arose and left the house. 
 
 For many minutes after her father's departure, Mary sat 
 weeping bitterly. She felt hopeless and deserted Ten 
 derly did she love her parent ; but this love was only a 
 source of the keenest anguish, for she saw him swiftly pass 
 ing along the road to destruction without the power to 
 save him. 
 
 Grief wastes itself by its own violence. So it was in 
 this instance. The tears of Mary were at length dried ; 
 her sobs were hushed, and she was about rising from her 
 chair, when a blinding flash of lightning glared into the 
 room, followed instantly by a deafening jar of thunder. 
 
 "Oh, if father were home!" she murmured, clasping her 
 hands together. 
 
 Even while she stood in this attitude, the door opened 
 quietly, and Mr. Edwards entered. 
 
 " I thought you would be afraid, Mary ; and so I came 
 home," said he in a kind voice. 
 
 Mary looked at him with surprise. This was soon 
 changed to joy as she perceived that he was perfectly 
 sober. 
 
 " Oh, father !" she sobbed, unable to control her feelings,
 
 164 THE TEMPERANCE SONG. 
 
 and leaning her face against his breast as she spoke " if 
 you would never go away !" 
 
 Tenderly the father drew his arm around his weeping 
 child, and kissed her pure forehead. 
 
 "Mary," said he, as calmly as he could speak, "for 
 your mother's sake " but he could not finish the sen 
 tence. His voice quivered, and became inarticulate. 
 
 Solemnly, in the silence of his own heart, did the father, 
 as he stood thus with his child in his arms, repeat the 
 vows he had already taken. And he kept his vows. 
 
 Wonderful is the power of music ! It is the heart's own 
 language, and speaks to it in a voice of irresistible per 
 suasion. It is a good gift from heaven, and should ever be 
 used in a good cause.
 
 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 
 
 FROM the time Mr. Andrew Grim opened a low grog 
 shop near the Washington Market, until, as a wealthy dis 
 tiller, he counted himself worth a hundred thousand dollars, 
 every thing had gone on smoothly ; and now he might be 
 seen among the money-lords of the day, as self-complacent 
 as any. He had stock, houses, and lands : and, in his 
 mind, these made up life's greatest good. And had he 
 not obtained them in honest trade ? Were they not the 
 reward of persevering industry ? Mr. Grim felt proud of 
 the fact, that he was the architect of his own fortunes. 
 "How many had started in life side by side with him; 
 and yet scarcely one in ten of them had risen above the 
 common level." 
 
 Thoughts like these often occupied the mind of Mr. 
 Grim. Such were his thoughts as he sat in his luxurious 
 parlor, one bleak December evening, surrounded by every 
 external comfort his heart could desire, when a child not 
 over seven or eight years of age was brought into the room 
 by a servant, who said, as he entered 
 
 " Here's a little girl that says she wants to see you." 
 
 Mr. Grim turned, and looked for a moment or two at the 
 visitei . She was the child of poor parents ; that was evi 
 dent from her coarse and meager garments. 
 
 " Do you wish to see me ?" he inquired, in a voice that 
 was meant to be repulsive. 
 
 " Yes, sir," timidly answered the child. 
 
 " Well, what do you want ?" 
 
 " My mother wants you." 
 
 " Your mother ! Who's your mother ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Dyer." 
 
 The manner of Mr. Grim changed instantly; and he 
 said 
 
 " Indeed ! What does your mother want ?" 
 
 " Father is sick ; and mother says he will die." 
 
 " What ails your father ?" 
 
 165
 
 166 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 
 
 " I don't know. But he's been sick ever since yester 
 day ; and he screams out so, and frightens us all." 
 
 " Where does your mother live ?" 
 
 The child gave the street and number. 
 
 Mr. Grim walked about the room uneasily for some time. 
 
 "Didn't your mother say what she wanted with me?" 
 he asked again, pausing before the little girl, whose eyes 
 had been following all his movements. 
 
 " No, sir. But she cried when she told me to go for you." 
 
 Mr. Grim moved about the room again for some time. 
 Then stopping suddenly, he said 
 
 " Go home and tell your mother I'll be there in a little 
 while." 
 
 The child retired from the room, and Mr. Grim resumed 
 his perambulations, his eyes upon the floor, and a shadow 
 resting on his countenance. After the lapse of nearly half 
 an hour he went into the hall, and drawing on a warm 
 overcoat, started forth in obedience- to what was evidently 
 an unwelcome summons for he muttered to himself as he 
 descended to the pavement 
 
 " I wish people would take care of what they get, and 
 learn to depend on themselves." 
 
 Mr. Grim took an omnibus and rode as far as Canal 
 street. Down Canal street he walked to West Broadway, 
 and along West Broadway for a couple of blocks, when he 
 stopped before an old brick house that looked as if it had 
 seen service for at least a hundred years, and examined the 
 number. 
 
 " This is the place, I suppose," said he, fretfully. And 
 he stepped back and looked up at the house. Then he 
 approached the door, and searched for a bell or knocker ; 
 but of neither of these appendages could the dwelling boast- 
 First, he rapped with his knuckles, then with his cane 
 But no one responded to the summons. He looked up and 
 saw lights in the window. So he knocked again, and 
 louder. After waiting several minutes, and not being ad 
 mitted, Mr. Grim tried the door and found it unfastened ; 
 but the passage into which he stepped was dark as mid 
 night. After knocking on the floor loudly with his cane, 
 a door opened above, a gleam of light fell on an old stair 
 way, and a rough voice called out, 
 
 "Who's there?"
 
 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 167 
 
 " Does Mr. Dyer live here ?" 
 
 " Besure he does !" was roughly answered. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to show me his room ?" 
 
 " You'll find it in the third story back," said the voice, 
 impatiently. The door was shut again, and all was dark 
 as before. 
 
 Mr. Grim stood irresolute for a few moments, and then 
 commenced groping his way up stairs, slowly and cautious 
 ly. Just as he gained the landing on the second flight, a 
 stifled scream was heard in one of the rooms on the third 
 floor, followed by a sudden movement, as if two persons 
 were struggling in a murderous conflict. He stopped and 
 listened, while a chill went over him. A long shuddering 
 groan followed, and then all was still again. Mr. Grim was 
 about retreating, when a door opened, and the child who 
 had called for him came out with a candle in her hand. 
 The light fell upon his form and the child saw him. 
 
 "Oh! mother! mother!" she cried, "Mr. Grim is 
 here !" 
 
 Instantly the form of a woman was seen in the door. Her 
 look was wild and distressed, and her hair, which had be 
 come loosened from the comb, lay in heavy masses upon 
 her shoulders. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Mary ! what is the matter ?" ex 
 claimed Mr. Grim, as he approached the woman. 
 
 "The matter!" She looked sternly at the visiter. 
 " Come and see !" And she pointed into the room. 
 
 A cry of unutterable distress broke upon the air, and the 
 woman sprang back quickly into the room. Mr. Grim hur 
 ried after her. By the feeble light of a single poor candle, 
 he saw a half-clothed man crouching fearfully in a corner 
 of the room, with his hands raised in the attitude of defence. 
 
 " Keep off! Keep off, I say !" he cried, despairingly. 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! It's on me, Mary ! Mary ! Oh ! Lord, 
 help me ! help me !" 
 
 And as these broken sentences fell from his lips, he 
 shrunk closer and closer into the corner, and then fell for 
 ward, writhing upon the floor. By this time, his wife was 
 bending down over him, and with her assuring voice she 
 soon succeeded in quieting him. 
 
 " They've all gone now, Henry," said she, in a tone
 
 168 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 
 
 of cheerful confidence, assumed at what an effort! 
 "I've driven them away. Come ! lie down upon the bed." 
 
 " They're under the bed," replied the sufferer, glancing 
 fearfully around. "Yes, yes ! There! I see that blackest 
 devil with the snake in his hand. He's grinning at me 
 from behind the bed post. Now he's going to throw his 
 horrible snake at me ! There ! oh oh oh oh !" 
 
 The fearful, despairing scream that issued from the poor 
 creature's lips, as he clung to his wife, curdled the very 
 blood in the veins of Mr. Grim, who now comprehended 
 the meaning of the scene. Dyer and his wife were friends 
 of other days. With the latter he had grown up from child 
 hood, and there were many reasons why he felt an interest 
 in her. Her husband had learned drinking and idleness in 
 his bar-room, many years before ; and more than once dur 
 ing the time of his declension, had she called upon Mr. 
 Grim, and earnestly besought him to do something to save 
 the one she loved best on earth from impending ruin. But, 
 he had entered the downward way, and it seemed that no 
 thing could stop his rapid progress. Now he met him, 
 after the lapse of ten years, and found him mad with the 
 drunkard's madness. 
 
 The scene was too painful for Mr. Grim. He could not 
 bear it. So, hurriedly drawing his purse from his pocket, 
 he threw it upon the floor, and turning from the room made 
 his way out of the house, trembling in every nerve. When 
 he arrived at home, the perspiration stood cold and clammy 
 on every part of his body. His mind was greatly excited. 
 Most vividly did he picture, in imagination, the horrible 
 fiend, striking the poor drunken wretch with his serpent 
 spear, or blasting him with his terrific countenance. For 
 an hour he walked the floor of his chamber, and then, 
 exhausted in body and mind, threw himself on a bed, and 
 tried to find oblivion in sleep. But, though he wooed the 
 gentle goddess, she came not with her soothing poppies. 
 Too vivid was the impression of what he had seen, and too 
 painful were the accompanying reflections, to admit of 
 sweet repose. At last, however, exhaustion came, and he 
 fell into that half sleeping and waking state in which the 
 imagination remains active, so painful to endure. In this 
 state, one picture presented by imagination was most vivid 
 of all ; it was the picture of poor Dyer, shrinking from the
 
 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 169 
 
 fiend with the serpent, which latter was now as plainly 
 visible to him as it had been to the unhappy drunkard. 
 Presently the fiend began to turn his eyes upon him with a 
 malignant expression ; then it glanced from him to the 
 drunkard, and pointing at the latter, said Grim heard the 
 voice distinctly 
 
 " It is your work /" 
 
 The distiller closed his eyes to hide from view the grin 
 ning phantom. But it did not shut out the vision. The 
 fiend was before him still ; and now it swung around its 
 head a horrid serpent with distended jaws, and seemed 
 about to dash it upon him. He cowered and groaned in 
 fear. As he still gazed upon the dreadful form, it slowly 
 changed into a female of stern yet beautiful aspect. In one 
 hand she held a naked sword, and in the other a balance. 
 Her knew her, and trembled still more intensely. 
 
 "I am JUSTICE," said the figure. "You have been 
 weighed in the balance and found wanting. The world is 
 sustained by mutual benefits. No man can live wholly for 
 himself. Each must serve the others. What one man 
 produces another enjoys. You have enjoyed, in abun 
 dance, the good things produced by others ; but what has 
 been your return ? Let me show you the work of your 
 hands. Look !" 
 
 Suddenly there was a murmur of voices ; the sound came 
 nearer and nearer, and a crowd of men and women came 
 eagerly toward the prostrate distiller all eyes upon him, 
 and all countenances expressive of anger, rebuke, or 
 despair. One poor mother held towards him her ragged, 
 starving child, and cried 
 
 "Your cursed trade has murdered his father. Give him 
 back to us!" 
 
 Another marred and degraded wretch called, with 
 clenched hand 
 
 " Where is my money, my good name, my all?" You 
 have robbed me of every thing !" 
 
 By his side was a poor drunkard, supporting the pale 
 form of his sick wife, while their starving children stood 
 weeping before them 
 
 " Look at us?" said he. " It is your handy- work !" 
 
 And there were dozens of others in the squalid crowd
 
 170 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 
 
 who called to him with bitter execrations, or pointed to their 
 ruined homes and cried 
 
 "It is your work! Your work! Rum rum has 
 cursed us!" 
 
 " Yes, this is your work," said Justice, sternly. " For 
 the good things of life you received on all hands from your 
 fellow-men, you gave them back a stream of fire to con 
 sume them. Wealth is the representative of use to society. 
 It comes, or should come, as a reward for serving the com 
 mon good. So earned, it is a blessing; and he who thus 
 gains it has a right to its possession. But, in your eager 
 pursuit of gain you have cursed every man who brought 
 you a blessing ; and now your ill-gotten wealth must be 
 given up. See!" 
 
 And, as she spoke, she pointed to an immense bag of 
 gold. 
 
 "It is all there!" continued Justice. "Your houses 
 and lands, your stocks and your merchandise, have been 
 converted into gold; and I now distribute it once more 
 among the people, to be gathered by those more worthy to 
 possess it than thou !" 
 
 Then a troop of fiends came rushing down through the 
 air, and, seizing the bag, were bearing it off in triumph, 
 M'hen the agonized sleeper sprang towards his gold, and in 
 the effort threw off the terrible nightmare that was almost 
 crushing out his life. 
 
 There was no sleep for him during the hours that inter 
 vened until the daylight broke. The images he had seen, 
 and the words he had heard, were before him all the time, 
 crushing his heart like the pressure of heavy footsteps. As 
 soon as the day had dawned he started forth and sought the 
 dwelling he had so hastily left on the night before. All 
 was silent as he ascended the stairway. The door of the 
 room where he had been stood partly open. He listened a 
 moment all was silent. He moved the door, but nothing 
 stirred within. Then he entered. His purse lay upon the 
 floor where he had thrown it; that was the first object 
 which met his sight. The next was the ghastly face of 
 death ! The wretched drunkard had passed to his account ; 
 and his body lay upon the bed. Close beside was the form 
 of her who had been to Mr. Grim, in early years, as a 
 tender sister. She was in a profound sleep ; and on the
 
 THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. 171 
 
 floor lay the child, also wrapped in deep forgetfulness of 
 the misery with which she was surrounded. 
 
 " And this is the work I have been doing !" sighed the 
 distiller ; whose mind could not lose the vivid impression 
 made by his dream. 
 
 A little while he contemplated the scene around him, 
 and then taking up his purse he silently withdrew. But 
 ere returning home he made known to a benevolent person 
 the fact of the unhappy death which had occurred, and, 
 placing money in his hand, asked him to do all that 
 humanity required, and to do it at his expense. 
 
 Few men went about their daily business with a heavier 
 heart than Mr. Andrew Grim. He felt that he was the 
 possessor of ill-gotten gain ; and felt, besides, a sense of 
 insecurity. 
 
 " Wealth is the representative of use to society. It comes, 
 or should come, as a reward for serving the common good" 
 he repeated to himself, in the words he had heard in his 
 dream. "And how have I served the common good? 
 What good have I performed that corresponds to the bless 
 ings I have received and enjoy? Ah, me ! I wish it were 
 otherwise." 
 
 With such thoughts, how could the man be happy! 
 When night came round again he feared to trust himself 
 in the arms of sleep ; and when exhausted nature yield 
 ed, painful dreams haunted him until morning. Weeks 
 elapsed before the vivid impression he had received wore 
 off, and before he enjoyed any thing like a quiet slumber. 
 But, though he had a better sleep, his waking thoughts 
 ceased to be peaceful and self-satisfying. A year went by, 
 and then, fretted beyond endurance at his position of manu 
 facturer of death and destruction, both natural and spiritual, 
 for his lellow men, he broke up his distillery, and invested 
 his money in a business that could be followed with benefit 
 to all.
 
 THE 
 
 RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 "How beautiful!" ejaculated Mary Graham, as she 
 fixed her eyes intently on the western sky, rich with the 
 many-coloured clouds of a brilliant sunset in June. 
 
 " feeautiful indeed !" responded her sister Anna. 
 
 " I could gaze on it for ever !" Ellen, a younger and 
 more enthusiastic sister remarked, with fervent admiration. 
 " Look, Ma ! was ever anything more gorgeous than that 
 pure white cloud, fringed with brilliant gold, and relieved 
 by the translucent and sparkling sky beyond ?" 
 
 " " It is indeed very beautiful, Ellen," Mrs. Graham 
 replied. But there was an abstraction in her manner, that 
 indicated, too plainly, that something weighed upon her 
 mind. 
 
 " You don't seem to enjoy a rich sunset as much as you 
 used to do, Ma," Anna said, for she felt the tone and 
 manner in which her mother had expressed her admiration 
 of the scene. 
 
 " You only think so, perhaps," Mrs. Graham rejoined, 
 endeavouring to arouse herself, and to feel interested in the 
 brilliant exhibition of nature to which her daughter had 
 alluded. " The scene is, indeed, very beautiful, Anna, and 
 reminds me strongly of some of Wordsworth's exquisite 
 descriptions, so full of power to awaken the heart's deepest 
 and purest emotions. You all remember this : 
 
 "'Calm is the evening air, and loth to lose 
 
 Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews. 
 Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; 
 Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
 You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, 
 And wonder how they could elude the sight.'"" 
 172
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY 173 
 
 "And this: 
 
 "'No sound is uttered, but a deep 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 Far distant images draw nigh, 
 Called forth by wondrous potency 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues 
 Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues! 
 In vision exquisitely clear, 
 Herds range along the mountain-side ; 
 And glistening antlers are descried; 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! 
 But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine! 
 From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift is won.' " 
 
 " How calm and elevating to the heart, like the hour 
 he describes," Ellen said, in a musing tone, as she sat with 
 her eyes fixed intently on the slow-fading glories of the 
 many-coloured clouds. 
 
 The influence of the tranquil hour gradually subdued 
 them into silence ; and as the twilight began to fall, each 
 sat in the enjoyment of a pure and refined pleasure, conse 
 quent upon a true appreciation of the beautiful in nature, 
 combined with highly cultivated tastes, and innocent and 
 elevated thoughts. 
 
 " There comes Pa, I believe," Anna remarked, breaking 
 the silence, as the hall door opened and then closed with a 
 heavy jar ; and the well-known sound of her father's foot 
 steps was heard along the passage and on the stairs. 
 
 None of her children observed the hushed intensity with 
 which Mrs. Graham listened, as their father ascended to 
 the chamber. But they noticed that she became silent and 
 more thoughtful than at first. In about ten minutes she 
 arose and left the room. 
 
 " Something seems to trouble Ma, of late," Ellen ob 
 served, as soon as their mother had retired. 
 
 " So I have thought. She is certainly, to all appearance, 
 less cheerful," Mary replied. 
 
 " What can be the cause of it ?" 
 
 " I nardly think there can be any very serious cause. 
 We are none of us always in the same state of mind."
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 " But I have noticed a change, in Ma, for some months 
 past and particularly in the last few weeks," Anna said. 
 ' She is not happy." 
 
 "I remember, now, that I overheard her, about six 
 weeks ago, talking to Alfred about something the com 
 pany he kept, I believe and that he seemed angry, and 
 spoke to her, I thought, unkindly. Since that time she 
 has not seemed so cheerful ;" Ellen said. 
 
 " That may be the cause ; but still I hardly think that it 
 is," Anna replied. "Alfred's principal associates are 
 William Gray and Charles Williams ; and they belong to 
 our first families. Pa, you know, is very intimate with 
 loth Mr. Gray and Mr. Williams." 
 
 "It was to William Gray and Charles Williams, I believe, 
 however, that Ma particularly objected." 
 
 " Upon what ground ?" 
 
 " Upon the ground of their habits, I think, she said." 
 
 " Their habits ? What of their habits, I wonder ?" 
 
 " I do not know, I am sure. I only remember having 
 heard Ma object to them on that account." 
 
 " That is strange !" was the remark of Anna. " I am 
 sure that I have never seen anything out of the way, in 
 either of them ; and, as to William Gray, I have always 
 esteemed him very highly." 
 
 " So have I," Mary said. " Both of them are intelligent, 
 agreeable young men ; and such, as it seems to me, are in 
 every way fitted to be companions for our brother." 
 
 But Mrs. Graham had seen more of the world than her 
 daughters, and knew how to judge from appearances far 
 better than they. Some recent circumstances, likewise, 
 had quickened her perceptions of danger, and made them 
 doubly acute. In the two young men alluded to, now 
 about the ages of eighteen and twenty, she had been pained 
 to observe strong indications of a growing want of strict 
 moral restraints, combined with a tendency towards dissi 
 pation ; and, what was still more painful, an exhibition of 
 like perversions in her only son, now on the verge of man 
 hood, that deeply responsible and dangerous period, when 
 parental authority and control subside in a degree, and the 
 individual, inexperienced yet self-confident, assumes the 
 task of guiding himself. 
 
 When Mrs. Graham left the room, she proceeded slowly
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 175 
 
 up to the chamber into which her husband had gone, where 
 all had been silent since his entrance. She found him 
 lying upon the bed, and already in a sound sleep. The 
 moment she bent over him, she perceived the truth to be 
 that which her trembling and sinking heart so much 
 dreaded. He was intoxicated ! 
 
 Shrinking away from the bed-side, she retired to a far 
 corner of the room, where she seated herself by a table, 
 and burying her face in her arms, gave way to the most 
 gloomy, heart -aching thoughts and feelings. Tears 
 brought her no relief from these ; for something of hope 
 lessness in her sorrow, gave no room for the blessing of 
 tears. 
 
 Mr. Graham was a merchant of high standing in Phila 
 delphia, where, for many years, he had been engaged 
 extensively in the East India trade. Six beautiful ships 
 floated for years upon the ocean, returning at regular 
 intervals, freighted with the rich produce of the East, and 
 filling his coffers, until they overflowed, with accumulating 
 wealth. But it was not wealth alone that gave to Mr. 
 Graham the elevated social position that he held. His 
 strong intelligence, and the high moral tone of his cha 
 racter, gave him an influence and an estimation far 
 above what he derived from his great riches. In the 
 education of his children, four in number, he had been 
 governed by a wise regard to the effect which that edu 
 cation would have upon them as members of society. 
 He early instilled into their minds a desire to be useful to 
 others, and taught them the difference between an estima 
 tion of individuals, founded upon their wealth and position 
 in society, and an estimation derived from intrinsic excel 
 lence of character. The consequence of all this was, to 
 make him beloved by his family purely and tenderly 
 beloved, because there was added to the natural affection 
 for one in his position, the power of a deep respect for 
 his character and principles. 
 
 At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Gra 
 ham was forty-five years old. Alfred, his oldest child, 
 was twenty-one; Mary, nineteen; Ellen, eighteen; and 
 Anna just entering her sixteenth year. Up to this time, 
 or nearly to this time, a happier family circled no hearth 
 in the city. But now an evil wing was hovering over
 
 176 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 them, the shadow from which had already been peiv 
 ceived by the mother's heart, as it fell coldly and darkly 
 upon it, causing it to shrink and tremble with gloomy 
 apprehensions. From early manhood up, it had been the 
 custom of Mr. Graham to use wines and brandies as 
 liberally as he desired, without the most remote suspicion 
 once crossing his mind that any danger to him could 
 attend the indulgence. But to the eye of his wife, whose 
 suspicions had of late been aroused, and her perceptions 
 rendered, in consequence, doubly acute, it had become 
 apparent that the habit was gaining a fatal predominance 
 over him. She noted, with painful emotions, that as each 
 evening returned, there were to her eye too evident indi 
 cations that he had been indulging so freely in the use of 
 liquors, as to have his mind greatly obscured. His dis 
 position, too, was changing; and he was becoming less 
 cheerful in his family, and less interested in the pleasures 
 and pursuits of his children. Alfred, whom he had, up to 
 this time, regarded with an earnest and careful solicitude, 
 was now almost entirely left to his own guidance, at an 
 age, too, when he needed more than ever the direction of 
 his father's matured experience. 
 
 All these exhibitions of a change so unlocked for, and 
 so terrible for a wife and mother to contemplate, might 
 well depress the spirits of Mrs. Graham, and fill her with 
 deep and anxious solicitude. For some weeks previous 
 to the evening on which our story opens, Mr. Graham 
 had shown strong symptoms almost every day symp 
 toms apparent, however, in the family, only to the eye of 
 his wife of drunkenness. Towards the close of each 
 day, as the hour for his return from business drew near 
 her feelings would become oppressed under the fearful 
 apprehension that when he came home, it would be in a 
 state of intoxication. This she dreaded on many ac 
 counts. Particularly was she anxious to conceal the 
 father's aberrations from his children. She could not 
 bear the thought that respect for one now so deeply 
 honoured by them, should be diminished in their bosoms. 
 She felt, too, keenly, the reproach that would rest upon 
 his name, should the vice that was now entangling, 
 obtain full possession of him, and entirely destroy his 
 manly, rational freedom of action. Of consequences to
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 177 
 
 herself and children, resulting from changed external cir 
 cumstances, she did not dream. Her husband's wealth 
 was immense; and, therefore, even if he should so far 
 abandon himself as to have to relinquish business, there 
 would be enough, and more than enough, to sustain them 
 in any position in society they might choose to occupy. 
 
 On the occasion to which we have already referred, 
 her heart was throbbing with suspense as the hour drew 
 nigh for his return, when, sooner than she expected him, 
 Mr. Graham opened the hall-door, and instead of entering 
 the parlour, as usual, proceeded at once to his chamber. 
 The quick ear of his wife detected something wrong in 
 the sound of his footsteps the cause she knew too well. 
 Oh, how deeply wretched she felt, though she strove all in 
 her power to seem unmoved while in the presence of her 
 children ! Anxious to know the worst, she soon retired, 
 as has been seen, from the parlours, and went up to the 
 chamber above. Alas ! how sadly were her worst fears 
 realized ! The loved and honoured partner of many 
 happy years, the father of her children, lay before her, 
 slumbering, heavily, in the sleep of intoxication. 
 
 It seemed, for a time, as if she could not bear up under 
 the trial. While seated, far from the bed-side, brooding 
 in sad despondency over the evil that had fallen upon 
 them an evil of such a character that it had never been 
 feared it seemed to her that she could not endure it. 
 Her thoughts grew bewildered, and reason for a time 
 seemed trembling. Then her mind settled into a gloomy 
 calmness that was even more terrible, for it had about it 
 something approaching the hopelessness of despair. 
 
 Thoughts of her children at last aroused her, as the 
 gathering night darkened the chamber in which she sat, 
 and she endeavoured to rally herself, and to assume a 
 calmness that she was far from feeling. A reason would 
 have to be given for the father's non-appearance at the 
 tea-table. That could easily be done. Fatigue and a 
 slight indisposition had caused him to lie down : and as 
 he had fallen asleep, it was thought best not to awaken 
 him. Such a tale was readily told, and as readily 
 received. The hardest task was to school her feelings 
 nto submission, and so control the expression of her face, 
 
 22
 
 178 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 and the tone of her voice, as to cause none to suspect that 
 there was anything wrong. 
 
 To do this fully, however, was impossible. Her man 
 ner was too evid'ently changed; and her face wore too 
 dreamy and sad an expression to deceive her daughters, 
 who inquired, with much tenderness and solicitude, 
 whether she was not well, or whether anything troubled 
 her. 
 
 " I am only a little indisposed," was her evasive reply 
 to her children's kind interrogatories. 
 
 " Can't I do something for you ?" inquired Ellen, with 
 an earnest affection in her manner. 
 
 " No, dear,", was her mother's brief response ; and then 
 followed a silence, oppressive to all, which remained 
 unbroken until the tea things were removed. 
 
 "Alfred is again away at tea-time," Mrs. Graham at 
 length said, as they all arose from the table. 
 
 " He went- out this afternoon with Charles Williams," 
 Mary replied. 
 
 "Did he?" the mother rejoined quickly, and with some 
 thing of displeasure in her tone. 
 
 " Yes. Charles called for him in his buggy about four 
 o'clock, and they rode out together. I thought you knew 
 it" 
 
 "No. I was lying down about that time." 
 
 " You do not seem to like Charles Williams much." 
 
 "I certainly do not, Anna, as a companion for Alfred. 
 He is too fond of pleasure and sporting, and I am very 
 much afraid will lead your brother astray." 
 
 " I never saw anything wrong about him, Ma." 
 
 " Perhaps not. But I have learned to be a much closer 
 observer in these matters than you, Mary. I have seen 
 , too many young men at Alfred's age led away, not to feel 
 a deep and careful solicitude for him." 
 
 As the subject seemed to give their mother pain, her 
 daughters did not reply ; and then another, and still more? 
 troubled silence followed. 
 
 A chill being thrown thus over the feelings of all, the 
 family separated at an early hour. But Mrs. Graham 
 did not retire to bed. She could not, for she was 
 strangely uneasy about her son. It was about twelve 
 o'clock when Alfred came in. His mother opened ner
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 179 
 
 door as he passed it, to speak to him but her tongue 
 refused to give utterance to the words that trembled upon 
 it. He, too, was intoxicated ! 
 
 Brief were the hours given to sleep that night, and 
 troubled the slumber that locked her senses in forgetful- 
 ness. On the next morning, the trembling hand of her 
 husband, as he lifted his cup to his lips, and the unre- 
 freshed and jaded appearance of her son, told but too 
 plainly their abuse of nature's best energies. With her 
 husband, Mrs. Graham could not bring herself to speak 
 upon the subject. But she felt that her duty as a mother 
 was involved in regard to her son, and therefore she 
 early took occasion to draw him aside, and remonstrate 
 against the course of folly upon which he was entering. 
 
 " You were out late last night, Alfred," she said, in a 
 mild tone. 
 
 " I was in at twelve, Ma." 
 
 " But that was too late, Alfred." 
 
 " I don't know, Ma. Other young men are out as late, 
 and even later, every night," the young man said, in a 
 respectful tone. " I rode out with Charles Williams in 
 the afternoon, and then went with him to a wine party at 
 night." 
 
 " I must tell you frankly, Alfred, that I like neither your 
 companion in the afternoon, nor your company in the 
 evening." 
 
 " You certainly do not object to Charles Williams. 
 He stands as high in society as I do." 
 
 " His family is one of respectability and standing. 
 But his habits, I fear, Alfred, are such as will, ere long, 
 destroy all of his title to respectful estimation." 
 
 "You judge harshly," the young man said, colouring 
 deeply. 
 
 " I believe not, Alfred. And what is more, I am con 
 vinced that you stand in imminent danger from your 
 association with him." 
 
 " How 1" was the quick interrogatory. 
 
 " Through him, for instance, you were induced to go to 
 a wine party last night." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " And there induced to- drink too much." 
 
 " Mother !"
 
 180 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 " I saw you when you came in, Alfred. You were in 
 a sad condition." 
 
 For a few moments the young man looked his mother 
 in the face, while an expression of grief and mortification 
 passed over his own. 
 
 "It is true," he at length said, in a subdued tone, "that 
 I did drink to excess, last evening. But do not be alarmed 
 on that account. I will be more guarded, in future. And 
 let me now assure you, most earnestly, that I am in no 
 danger: that I am not fond of wine. I was led to drink 
 too much, last evening, from being in a company where 
 wine was circulated as freely as water. I thought you 
 looked troubled, this morning, but did not dream that it 
 was on my account. Let me, then, urge you to banish 
 from your mind all fears in regard to me." 
 
 " I cannot banish such fears, my son, so long as I know 
 that you have dangerous associates. No one is led off, no 
 one is corrupted suddenly." 
 
 " But I do not think that I have dangerous associates." 
 
 " I am sure you have, Alfred. If they had not been 
 such, you would not have been led astray, last night. Go 
 not into the way of temptation. Shun the very beginnings 
 of evil. Remember Pope's warning declaration: 
 
 "'Vice, to be hated, needs but to be seen,' &c." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, Ma, you are far too serious about this 
 matter." 
 
 " No, my son, I cannot be !" 
 
 " Well, perhaps not. But, as I know the nature of my 
 associations far better than you possibly can, you must 
 pardon me for thinking that they involve no danger. I 
 have arrived to years of discretion, and certainly think 
 that I am, or at least ought to be, able to judge for mv- 
 self." 
 
 There was that in the words and tone of the young man, 
 that made the mother feel conscious that it would be no 
 use for her to urge the matter further, at that time. She 
 merely replied 
 
 "For your mother's sake, Alfred, guard yourself more 
 carefully, in future." 
 
 It is wonderful, sometimes, how rapidly a downward 
 course is run. The barrier, against which the waters have
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 181 
 
 been driven for years, is rapidly washed away, so soon as 
 even the smallest breach is made. A breach had been 
 made in Mr. Graham's resolution to be only a sober drinker 
 of intoxicating liquors ; and the consequence was, that he 
 had less power to resist the strong inclination to drink, 
 that had become almost like a second nature to him. A 
 few weeks only elapsed, before he came home so drunk 
 as to expose himself in the street, and before his children 
 and servants, in a most disgusting and degrading manner. 
 
 Terrible indeed was the shock to his children espe 
 cially to Mary, Ellen and Anna. His sudden death could 
 not have been a more fearful affliction. Then, they would 
 have sorrowed in filial respect and esteem, made sacred 
 by an event that would embalm the memory of their 
 father in the permanent regard of a whole community : 
 now, he stood degraded in their eyes ; and they felt that 
 he was degraded in the eyes of all. In his presence they 
 experienced restraint, and they looked for his coming with 
 a shrinking fear. It was, indeed, an awful affliction 
 such as few can realize in imagination ; and especially for 
 them, as they occupied a conspicuous position in society, 
 and were conscious that all eyes were upon them, and that 
 all tongues would be busy with the story of their father's 
 degradation. 
 
 It is wonderful, we have said, how rapidly a downward 
 course is sometimes run. In the case of Mr. Graham, 
 many circumstances combined to hasten his ruin. It was 
 nearly a year after he had given way to the regular indul 
 gence of drink, so far as to be kept almost constantly in a 
 state of half-intoxication through the business hours of 
 almost every day, that he received news of the loss of a 
 vessel richly laden with teas from China. At the proper 
 time he presented the requisite documents to his under 
 writers, and claimed the loss, amounting, on ship and cargo, 
 to one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. On 
 account of alleged improper conduct on the part of the 
 captain, united with informality in the papers, the under 
 writers refused to pay the loss. A suit at law was the 
 consequence, in which the underwriters were sustained. 
 An appeal was made, but the same result followed thus 
 sweeping away, at a single blow, property to the amount 
 of over one hundred thousand dollars. During the pro 
 

 
 182 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 gress of the trial, Mr. Graham was much excited, and 
 drank more freely than ever. When the result was finally 
 ascertained, he sank down into a kind of morose inactivity 
 for some months, neglecting his large and important busi 
 ness, and indulging, during the time, more deeply than eve? 
 in his favourite potations. It was in vain that his distressed 
 family endeavoured to rouse him into activity. All thei* 1 
 efforts were met by an irritability and a moroseness of 
 temper so unlike what he had been used to exhibit towards 
 them, that they gave up all idea of influencing him in 
 despair. 
 
 A second heavy loss, of nearly equal amount, altogether 
 consequent upon this neglect of business, seemed to awaken 
 up the latent energies of his character, and he returned to 
 himself with something of his former clear-sighted energy 
 of character. But his affairs had already become, to him, 
 strangely entangled. The machinery of his extensive 
 operations had been interrupted ; and now, in attempting 
 to make the wheels move on again, it was too apparent 
 that much of it had become deranged, and the parts no 
 longer moved in harmonious action with the whole. The 
 more these difficulties pressed upon him, the deeper did 
 he drink, as a kind of relief, and, in consequence, the more 
 unfit to extricate himself from his troubles did he become. 
 Every struggle, like the efforts of a large animal in a 
 quagmire, only tended to involve him deeper and deeper 
 in inextricable embarrassment. 
 
 This downward tendency continued for about three 
 years, when his family was suddenly stunned by the shock 
 of his failure. It seemed impossible for them to realize 
 the truth and, indeed, almost impossible for the whole 
 community to realize it. It was only three or four years 
 previous that his wealth was estimated, and truly so, at a 
 million and a half. He was known to have met with 
 heavy losses, but where so much could have gone, puzzled 
 every one. It seems almost incredible that any man could 
 have run through such an estate by mismanagement, in so 
 brief a period. But such was really the case. Accus 
 tomed to heavy operations, he continued to engage in only 
 the most liberal transactions, every loss in which was a 
 matter of serious moment. And towards the last, as his 
 mind grew more and more bewildered in consequence of
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 183 
 
 his drinking deeper and deeper, he scarcely got up a single 
 voyage, that did not result in loss ; until, finally, he was 
 driven to an utter abandonment of business but not until 
 he had involved his whole estate in ruin. 
 
 The beautiful family mansion on Chestnut-street had to 
 be given up the carriage and elegant furniture sold under 
 the hammer, while the family retired, overwhelmed with 
 distress, to an humble dwelling in an obscure part of the 
 city. 
 
 Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and 
 her children were thus thrown suddenly down from their 
 elevation, and driven into obscurity, that lady sat alone, 
 near the window of a meanly-furnished room in a house 
 on the suburbs of the city, overlooking the Schuylkill. It 
 was near the hour of sunset. Gradually the day declined, 
 and the dusky shadows of evening fell gloomily around. 
 Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her hand, in 
 deep abstraction of mind. Alas ! seven years had wrought 
 a sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her 
 feelings. Her deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told 
 a tale of wretchedness and suffering, whose silent appeal 
 made the very heart ache. Her garments, too, were old 
 and faded, and antiquated in style. 
 
 She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of 
 the room was opened slowly, and a young woman entered, 
 carrying on her arm a small basket. She seemed, at first 
 sight, not over twenty-three or four years of age ; but, 
 when observed more closely, her hollow cheek, pale face, 
 and languid motions, indicated the passage of either many 
 more years over her head, or the painful inroads of disease 
 and sorrow. Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, 
 as the young woman entered, and, after placing her basket 
 on a table, laid aside her bonnet and faded shawl. 
 
 " How did you find Ellen, to-day ?" she at length said. 
 
 " Bad enough !" was the mournful reply. " It makes 
 my heart ache, Ma, whenever I go to see her." 
 
 " Was her husband at home ?" 
 
 " Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever." 
 
 "How is the babe, Mary?" 
 
 " Not well. Dear little innocent creature ! it has seen 
 the light of this dreary world in an evil time. Ellen has 
 scarcely any milk for it ; and I could not get it to feed,
 
 184 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 try all I could. It nestles in her breast, and frets and cries 
 almost incessantly, with pain and hunger. Although it is 
 now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have gained scarcely 
 any strength at all. She has no appetite, and creeps about 
 with the utmost difficulty. With three little children hang 
 ing about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her 
 condition is wretched indeed. It would be bad enough, 
 were her husband kind to her. But cross, drunken and 
 idle, scarcely furnishing his family with food enough to 
 sustain existence, her life with him is one of painful trial 
 and suffering. Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive dis 
 position and delicate body, how she can endure such a 
 life for a week." 
 
 A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother's only 
 response. Her daughter continued, 
 
 " Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in 
 my side, and weakness, I must go over again to-morrow 
 and stay with her. She ought not to be left alone. The 
 dear children, too, require a great deal of attention that 
 she cannot possibly give to them." 
 
 " You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had 
 you not, Mary 1 I could attend to her much better than 
 Ellen can." 
 
 " I was thinking of that myself, Ma. But you seemed 
 so poorly, that I did not feel like saying anything about it 
 just now." 
 
 " O yes. Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, 
 by all means. It will take that much off of poor Ellen's 
 hands." 
 
 " Then I will do so, Ma ; at least if Ellen is willing,'' 
 Mary said, in a lighter tone the idea of even that relief 
 being extended to her overburdened sister causing her 
 mind to rise in a momentary buoyancy. 
 
 " Anna is late to-night," she remarked, after a pause of 
 a few moments. 
 
 As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of 
 whom she spoke entered. 
 
 " You are late to-night, Anna," her mother said. 
 
 " Yes, rather later than usual. I had to take a few 
 small articles home for a lady, after I left the store, who 
 lives in Sixth near Spring Garden." 
 
 " In Sixth near Spring .Garden !"
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 187 
 
 " Yes. The lad who takes home goods had gone, and 
 the lady was particular about having them sent home this 
 evening." 
 
 " Do you not feel very tired ?" 
 
 " Indeed I do," the poor girl said, sinking into a chair. 
 " I feel, sometimes, as if I must give up. No one in our 
 store is allowed to sit down from morning till night. 
 The other girls don't appear to mind it much ; but before 
 evening, it seems as if I must drop to the floor. But I 
 won't complain," she added, endeavouring to rally her 
 self, and put on a cheerful countenance. "How have you 
 been to-day, Ma ?" 
 
 " If you won't complain, I am sure that I have no right 
 to, Anna." 
 
 " You cannot be happy, of course, Ma ; that I know too 
 well. None of us, I fear, will ever be again happy in 
 this world !" Anna said, in a lone of despondency, her 
 spirits again sinking. 
 
 No one replied to this ; and a gloomy silence of many 
 minutes followed a quiet almost as oppressive as the 
 stillness that reigns in the chamber of death. Then 
 Mary commenced busying herself about the evening 
 meal. 
 
 "Tea is ready, Ma and Anna," she at length said, 
 after their frugal repast had been placed upon the table. 
 
 " Has not Alfred returned yet?" Anna asked. 
 
 " No," was the brief answer. 
 
 " Hadn't we better wait for him ?" 
 
 " He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if 
 he wants any," the mother said. "You are tired and 
 hungry, and we will not, of course, wait." 
 
 The little family, three in number, gathered around the 
 table, but no one eat with an appetite of the food that was 
 placed before them. There were two vacant places at 
 the board. The husband and son the father and bro 
 ther where were they? 
 
 In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene 
 which occurred a few weeks previous will explain all. 
 First, however, a brief review of the past seven years is 
 necessary. After Mr. Graham's failure in business, he 
 gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his whole family, 
 down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented 
 
 23
 
 188 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 rapidity. He seemed at once to become strangely indif 
 ferent to his wife and children to lose all regard for 
 their welfare. In fact, he had become, in a degree, 
 insane from the sudden reverses which had overtaken 
 him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong 
 drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring. 
 
 Thus left to struggle on against the pressure of absolute 
 want, suddenly and unexpectedly brought upon them, and 
 with no internal or external resources upon which to fall 
 promptly back, Mrs. Graham and her daughters were for 
 a time overwhelmed with despair. Alfred, to whom they 
 should have looked for aid, advice, and sustenance, in this 
 hour of severe trial, left almost entirely to himself, as far 
 as his father had been concerned, for some two years, 
 had sunk into habits of dissipation from which even this 
 terrible shock had not the power to arouse him. Having 
 made himself angry in his opposition to, and resistance of, 
 all his mother's admonitions, warnings, and persuasions, 
 he seemed to have lost all affection for her and his sisters. 
 So that a sense of their destitute and distressed condition 
 had no influence over him at least, not sufficient to 
 arouse him into active exertions for their support. Thus 
 were they left utterly dependent upon their own resources 
 and what was worse, were burdened with the support 
 of both father and brother. 
 
 The little that each had been able to save from the 
 general wreck, was, as a means of sustenance, but small. 
 Two or three gold watches and chains, with various arti 
 cles of jewelery, fancy work-boxes, and a number of trifles, 
 more valued than valuable, made up, besides a remnant of 
 household furniture, the aggregate of their little wealth. 
 Of course, the mother and daughters were driven, at once, 
 to some expedient for keeping the family togeJher. A 
 boarding-house, that first resort of nearly all -destitute 
 females, upon whom families are dependent, especially of 
 those who have occupied an elevated position in rociety, 
 was opened, as the only means of support that presented 
 itself. The result of this experiment, continued for a year 
 and a half, was a debt of several hundred dollars, which 
 was liquidated by the seizure of Mrs. Graham's furniture. 
 But worse than this, a specious young man, one of the 
 boarders, had won upon the affections of Ellen, and induced
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 189 
 
 her to marry him. He, too soon, proved himself to have 
 neither a true affection for her, nor to have sound moral 
 principles. He was, moreover, idle, and fond of gay com 
 pany. 
 
 On the day that Mrs. Graham broke up her boarding- 
 house, Markland, her daughter's husband, was discharged 
 from his situation as clerk, on account of inefficiency. 
 For six months previous, the time he had been married, 
 he had paid no boarding, thus adding himself as a dead 
 weight to the already overburdened family. As he had 
 no house to which he could take Ellen, he very naturally 
 felt himself authorized to share the house to which the 
 distressed family of her mother retired, seemingly regard 
 less of how or by whom the food he daily consumed was 
 provided. 
 
 But Mrs. Graham was soon reduced to such extremities, 
 that he was driven off from her, with his wife, and forced 
 to obtain employment by which to support himself and her. 
 As for the old man, he had managed, in the wreck of 
 affairs, to retain a large proportion of his wines, and other 
 choice liquors ; and these, which no pressure of want in 
 his family could drive him to sell, afforded the means of 
 gratifying his inordinate love of drink. His clothes gradu 
 ally became old and rusty but this seemed to give him 
 no concern. He wandered listlessly in his old business- 
 haunts, or lounged about the house in a state of half stupor, 
 drinking regularly all through the day, at frequent periods, 
 and going to bed, usually, at nights, in a state of stupe 
 faction. 
 
 When the boarding-house was given up, poor Mrs. Gra 
 ham, whose health and spirits had both rapidly declined in 
 the past two years, felt utterly at a loss what to do. Buf 
 pressing necessities required immediate action. 
 
 " Anna, child, what are we to do," she said, rousin<* 
 herself, one evening, while sitting alone with her daughters 
 in gloomy abstraction. 
 
 " Indeed, Ma, I am as much at a loss as you are. I 
 have been thinking and thinking about it, until my mind 
 has become beclouded and bewildered." 
 
 " I have been thinking, too," said Mary, " and it strikes 
 me that Anna and I might do something in the way of
 
 190 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 ornamental needlework. Both of us, you -know, are fond 
 of it." 
 
 " Do you think that we can sell it, after it is done ?" 
 Anna asked, with a lively interest in her tone. 
 
 " I certainly do. We see plenty of such work in the 
 shops ; and they must buy it, of course." 
 
 " Let us try, then, Mary," her sister said with anima 
 tion. 
 
 A week spent in untiring industry, produced two ele 
 gantly wrought capes, equal to the finest French em 
 broidery. 
 
 " And, now, where shall we sell them ?" Anna inquired, 
 in a tone of concern. 
 
 Mrs. would, no doubt, buy them ; but I, for one, 
 
 cannot bear the thought of going there." 
 
 " Nor I. But, driven by necessity, I believe that I could 
 brave to go there, or anywhere else, even though I have 
 not been in Chestnut-street for nearly two years." 
 
 " Will you go, then, Mary ?" Anna asked, in an earnest, 
 appealing tone. 
 
 " Yes, Anna, as you seem so shrinkingly reluctant, I 
 will go." 
 
 And forthwith Mary prepared herself; and rolling up 
 the two elegant capes, proceeded with them to the store 
 
 of Mrs. , in Chestnut-street. It was crowded with 
 
 customers when she entered, and so she shrunk away to 
 
 the back part of the store, until Mrs. should be more 
 
 at leisure, and she could bargain with her without attract 
 ing attention. She had stood there only a few moments, 
 when her ear caught the sound of a familiar voice that 
 of Mary Williams, one of her former most intimate asso 
 ciates. Her first impulse was to spring forward, but a 
 remembrance of her changed condition instantly recurring 
 to her, she turned more away from the light, so as to 
 effectually conceal herself from the young lady's observa 
 tion. This she was enabled to do, although Mary Wil 
 liams came once or twice so near as to brush her garments. 
 How oppressively did her heart beat, at such moments ! 
 Old thoughts and old feelings came rushing back upon her, 
 and in the contrast they occasioned between the past and 
 the present, she was almost overwhelmed with despon 
 dency. Customer after customer came in, as one and
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 191 
 
 another retired, many of whose faces were familiar to 
 Mary as old friends and acquaintances. At last, however, 
 after waiting nearly two hours, she made out to get an 
 interview with Mrs. . 
 
 "Well, Miss, what do you want?" asked that person 
 age, as Mary came up before her where she still stood at 
 the counter, for she had observed her waiting in the store 
 
 for some time. Mrs. either did not remember, or 
 
 cared not to remember, her old customer, who had spent, 
 with her sisters, many hundreds of dollars in her store, in 
 times past. 
 
 " I have a couple of fine wrought capes that I should 
 like to sell," Mary said, in a timid, hesitating voice, 
 unrolling, at the same time, the articles she named. 
 
 "Are they French?" asked Mrs. , without pausing 
 
 in her employment of rolling up some goods, to take and 
 examine the articles proffered her. 
 
 "No, ma'am; they are some of my own and sister's 
 work." 
 
 " They won't do, then, Miss. Nothing in the way of 
 fine collars and capes will sell, unless they are French." 
 
 Mary felt chilled at heart as Mrs. said this, and 
 
 commenced slowly rolling up her capes, faint with disap 
 pointment. As she was about turning from the counter 
 Mrs. said, in rather an indifferent tone, 
 
 " Suppose you let me look at them." 
 
 " I am sure you will think them very beautiful," Mary 
 replied, quickly unrolling her little bundle. " They have 
 been wrought with great care." 
 
 " Sure enough, they are quite well done," Mrs. 
 
 said, coldly, as she glanced her eyes over the capes. 
 " Almost equal in appearance to the French. But they 
 are only domestic; and domestic embroidered work 
 won't bring scarcely anything. What do you ask for 
 these ?" 
 
 " We have set no price upon them ; but think that 
 tney are richly worth five or six dollars apiece." 
 
 " Five or six dollars !" ejaculated Mrs. , in well 
 
 feigned surprise, handing back, suddenly, the capes. "O! 
 no, Miss ; American goods don't bring any such prices." 
 
 " Then what will you give for them, Madam ?" 
 
 " If you feel like taking two dollars apiece for them,
 
 192 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 you can leave them. But I am not particular," 
 Mrs. said, in a careless tone. 
 
 " Two dollars !" repeated Mary, in surprise. " Surely, 
 Mrs. , they are worth more than two dollars apiece!" 
 
 " I'm not at all anxious to give you even that for them," 
 
 said Mrs. . " Not at all ; for I am by no means sure 
 
 that I shall ever get my money back again." 
 
 " You will have to take them, then, I suppose," Mary 
 replied, in a disappointed and desponding tone. 
 
 " Very well, Miss, I will give you what I said." And 
 
 Mrs. took the capes, and handed Mary Graham four 
 
 dollars in payment. 
 
 " If we should conclude to work any more, may we 
 calculate on getting the same money for them?" 
 
 " I can't say positively, Miss ; but I think that you may 
 calculate on that price for as many as you will bring." 
 
 Mary took the money, and turned away. It was only 
 
 half an hour after, that Mrs. sold one of them, as 
 
 "French," for twelve dollars ! 
 
 Sadly, indeed, were the sisters disappointed at this 
 result. But nothing better offering that they could do, 
 they devoted themselves, late and early, to their needles, 
 the proceeds of which rarely went over five dollars per 
 week ; for two years they continued to labour thus. 
 
 At the end of that period, Anna sunk under her self- 
 imposed task, and lay ill for many weeks. Especially 
 forbidden by the physician, on her recovery, to enter 
 again upon sedentary employments, Anna cast earnestly 
 about her for some other means whereby to earn some 
 thing for the common stock. Necessity, during the past 
 two years, had driven her frequently into business parts 
 of the city for the purchase of materials such as they 
 used. Her changed lot gave her new eyes, and her 
 observations were necessarily made upon a new class of 
 facts. She had seen shop-girls often enough before, but 
 she had never felt any sympathy with them, nor thought 
 of gaining any information about them. They might 
 receive one dollar a week, or twenty, or work for nothing 
 it was all the same to her. Even if any one had given 
 her correct information on the subject, she would have 
 forgotten it in ten minutes. But now, it was a matter of 
 interest to know how much they could make and she
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 193 
 
 had obtained a knowledge of the fact, that they earned 
 from three to six and seven dollars a week, according to 
 their capacities or the responsibility of their stations. 
 
 When, therefore, her shattered health precluded her 
 from longer plying her needle, much as she shrank from 
 the publicity and exposure of the position, she resolutely 
 set about endeavouring to obtain a situation as saleswoman 
 in some retail dry-goods store. One of the girls in Mrs. 
 
 's store, who knew all about her family, and deeply 
 
 commiserated her condition, interested herself for her, 
 and succeeded in getting her a situation, at four dollars a 
 week, in Second-street. To enter upon the employment 
 that now awaited her, was indeed a severe trial ; but she 
 went resolutely forward, in the way that duty called. 
 
 The sudden change from a sedentary life to one of 
 activity, where she had to be on her feet all day, tried 
 her feeble strength severely. It was with difficulty that 
 she could sometimes keep up at all, and she went homo 
 frequently at night in a burning fever. But she gradually 
 acquired a kind of power of endurance, that kept her up. 
 She did not seem to suffer less, but had more strength, as 
 it were, to bear up, and hold on with unflinching resolu 
 tion. ^ 
 
 Thus she had gone on for two or three years, at the 
 time she was again introduced, with her mother and 
 sister, to the reader. 
 
 As for their father, his whole stock of liquors had been 
 exhausted for nearly two years, and, during that time, he 
 had resorted to many expedients to obtain the potations 
 he so much loved. Finally, he became so lost to all 
 sense of right or feeling, that he would take money, or 
 anything he could carry off from the house, for the pur 
 pose of obtaining liquor. This system had stripped them 
 of many necessary articles, as well as money, and added 
 very greatly to their distress, as well as embarrassments. 
 
 At last, everything that he could take had been taken, 
 and as neither his wife nor daughters would give him any 
 money, his supply of stimulus was cut off, and he became 
 almost mad with the intolerable desire that was burning 
 within him for the fiery poison which had robbed him of 
 rationality and freedom. 
 
 " Give me some money !" he said, in an excited tone, 
 to his wife, coming in hurriedly from the street, one day
 
 194 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 about this time. His face was dark and red, as if there 
 were a congestion of the blood in the veins of the skin, 
 while his hands trembled, and his whole frame was 
 strongly agitated. Those who had been familiar with 
 that old man, years before, would hardly have recognized 
 him now, in his old worn and faded garments. 
 
 " I have no money for you," his wife replied. " You 
 have already stripped us of nearly everything " 
 
 " Buy me some brandy, then." 
 
 "No. I cannot do that either. Brandy has cursed 
 you and your family. Why do you not abandon it for 
 ever 1" 
 
 "I must have brandy, or die ! Give me something to 
 drink, in the name of heaven !" 
 
 The wild look that her husband threw upon her, alarmed 
 Mrs. Graham, and she hesitated no longer, but handed 
 him a small piece of money. Quick as thought, he 
 turned away and darted from the house. 
 
 It was, perhaps, after the lapse of about half an hour 
 that he returned. He opened the door, when he did so, 
 quietly, and stood looking into the room for a few mo 
 ments. Then he turned his head quickly from the right 
 to the left, glancing fearfully behind him once or twice. 
 In a moment or two afterwards he started forward, with 
 a strong expression of alarm upon his countenance, and 
 seated himself close beside Mrs. Graham, evidently in the 
 hope of receiving her protection from some dreaded evil. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Gra 
 ham, starting up with a frightened look. 
 
 "It is really dreadful!" he said. "What can it all 
 mean ?' 
 
 " What is dreadful ?" asked his wife, her heart throb 
 bing with an unknown terror. 
 
 " There ! Did you ever see such an awful sight ? 
 Ugh !" and he shrunk behind her chair, and covered his 
 eyes with his hands. 
 
 "I se nothing, Mr. Graham," his wife said, after a 
 few moments of hurried thought, in which she began to 
 comprehend the fact that her husband's mind was wan 
 dering. 
 
 "There is nothing here that will hurt you, father," 
 Mary added, coming up to him, as her own mind arrived 
 at a conclusion similar to her mother's.
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 195 
 
 " Nothing to hurt me !" suddenly screamed the old man, 
 springing to his feet, and throwing himself backwards 
 half across the room ; " and that horrible creature already 
 twining himself about my neck, and strangling me ! Take it 
 off! take it off!" he continued, in a wild cry of terror, ma 
 king strong efforts to tear something away from his throat. 
 
 " Take it off'! Why don't you take it off! Don't you 
 see that it is choking me to death ! Oh! oh! oh!" (uttered 
 in a terrific scream.) 
 
 Panting, screaming and struggling, he continued in this 
 state of awful alarm, vainly endeavouring to extricate him 
 self from the toils of an imaginary monster, that was suffo 
 cating him, until he sank exhausted to the floor. 
 
 Happily for his alarmed and distressed family, two or 
 three neighbours, who had been startled by the old man's 
 screams, came hurriedly in, and soon comprehended the 
 nature of his aberration. A brief consultation among 
 themselves determined them, understanding, as they did 
 perfectly, the condition of the family> and his relation to 
 them, to remove him at once to the Aims-House, where 
 he could get judicious medical treatment, and be out of the 
 sight and hearing of his wife and children. 
 
 One of them briefly explained to Mrs. Graham, and 
 Mary, the nature of his mental affection, and the absolute 
 necessity that there was for his being placed where the 
 most skilful and judicious management of his case could 
 be had. After some time, he gained their reluctant con 
 sent to have him taken to the Aims-House. A carriage 
 was then obtained, and he forced into it, amid the tears 
 and remonstrances of the wife and daughter, who had 
 already repented of their acquiescence in what their judg 
 ment had approved. Old affection had rushed back upon 
 their hearts, and feelings became stronger than reason. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when this 
 occurred. Early on the next morning, Mrs. Graham, with 
 Mary and Anna, went out to see him. Their inquiries 
 about his condition were vaguely answered, and with 
 seeming reluctance, or as it appeared to them, with indif 
 ference. At length the matron of the institution asked 
 them to go with her, and they followed on, through halls 
 and galleries, until they came to a room, the door of which 
 she opened, with a silent indication for them to enter. 
 
 They entered alone. Everything was hushed, and the
 
 196 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 silence that of the chamber of death. In the centre of 
 the room lay the old man. A single glance told the fearful 
 tale. He was dead ! Dead in the pauper's home ! Seven 
 years before, a millionaire now sleeping his last sleep in 
 the dead-room of an Aims-House, and his beggared wife 
 and children weeping over him in heart-broken and hope 
 less sorrow. 
 
 From that time the energies of Mary and Anna seemed 
 paralyzed; and it was only with a strong effort that Mrs. 
 Graham could rouse herself from the stupor of mind and 
 body that had settled upon her. 
 
 Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished 
 their evening meal, at the close of the day alluded to some 
 pages back, when the sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps 
 was heard on the pavement. In a moment after, a heavy 
 blow was given just at their door, and some one fell with 
 a groan against it. The weight of the body forced it open, 
 and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the 
 blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead. His 
 assailant instantly fled. Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and 
 worn clothing, how different, even when moving about, 
 was he from the genteel, well-dressed young man of a few 
 years back ! Idleness and dissipation had wrought as great 
 a change upon him as it had upon his father, while he was 
 living. Now he presented a shocking and loathsome ap 
 pearance. 
 
 The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, 
 while the mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow 
 of blood, that had already formed a pool upon the floor. 
 Assistance was speedily obtained, and the wound dressed ; 
 but the young man remained insensible. As the physician 
 turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank fainting upon her 
 bed. Over-tried nature could bear up no longer. 
 
 " Doctor, what do you think of him ?" asked the mother, 
 anxiously, three days after, as the physician came out of 
 Alfred's room. Since the injury he had received, he had 
 lain in a stupor, but with much fever. 
 
 " His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one. I have 
 tried in vain to control that fever." 
 
 "Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?" Mary 
 asked, in a husky voice. 
 
 " I certainly do. And, to speak to you the honest truth,
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 197 
 
 I have, myself, no hope of his recovery. 1 think it right 
 that you should know this." 
 
 "No hope, Doctor!" Mrs. Graham said, laying her 
 hand upon the physician's arm, while her face grew deadly 
 pale. " No hope ! My only son die thus ! O ! Doctor, 
 can you not save him ?" 
 
 " I wish it were in my power, Madam. But I will not 
 flatter you with false hopes. It will be little less than a 
 miracle should he survive." 
 
 The mother and sisters turned away with an air of 
 hopelessness from the physician, and he retired slowly, and 
 with oppressed feelings. 
 
 When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change 
 had already taken place in Alfred. The prediction of the 
 physician, it was evident to each, as all bent eagerly over 
 him, was about to be too surely and too suddenly realized. 
 His face, from being slightly flushed with fever, had become 
 sunken, and ghastly pale, and his respiration so feeble that 
 it was almost imperceptible. 
 
 The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come. 
 The son and brother, for whom now rushed back upon 
 their hearts the tender and confiding affection of earlier 
 years, was lingering upon life's extremest verge. It 
 seemed that they could not give him up. They felt that, 
 even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do 
 without him. He was a son and brother; and, while he 
 lived, there was still hope of his restoration. The strength 
 of that hope, entertained by each in the silent chambers 
 of affection, was unknown before its trial revealed its 
 power over each crushed and sinking heart. 
 
 But the passage of each moment brought plainer and 
 more palpable evidence of approaching dissolution. For 
 about ten minutes he had lain so still, that they were sud 
 denly aroused by the fear that he might be already dead 
 Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his forehead. Its 
 cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart 
 Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath 
 but she could distinguish none. 
 
 " He is dead !" she murmured, sinking down and bury 
 ing her face in the bed-clothes. 
 
 The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full full and 
 running over !
 
 THE 
 
 RUINED FAMILY 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 STUNNED by this new affliction, which seemed harder 
 to bear than any of the terrible ones that had gone before, 
 Mrs. Graham sunk into a state of half unconsciousness ; 
 but Anna still lingered over the insensible body of her 
 brother, and though reason told her that the spirit had 
 taken its everlasting departure, her heart still hoped that 
 it might not be so, that a spark yet remained which would 
 rekindle. 
 
 The pressure of her warm hand upon his cold, damp 
 forehead, mocked her hopes. His motionless chest told 
 of the vanity of her fond anticipations of seeing his heart 
 again quicken into living activity. And yet, she could 
 not give him up. She could not believe that he was dead. 
 As she still hung over him, it seemed to her that there 
 was a slight twitching of the muscles about the neck. 
 How suddenly did her heart bound and throb until its 
 strong pulsations pained her ! Eagerly did she bend down 
 upon him, watching for some more palpable sign of re 
 turning animation. But nothing met either her eye or 
 her ear that strengthened the newly awakened hope. 
 
 After waiting, vainly, for some minutes, until the feeble 
 hope she had entertained began to fail, Anna stepped 
 quickly to the mantelpiece, and lifted from it a small 
 looking-glass, with which she returned to the bedside. 
 Holding this close to the face of her brother, she watched 
 the surface with an eager anxiety that almost caused the 
 beating of her heart to cease. As a slight mist slowly 
 gathered upon the glass and obscured its surface, Anna 
 198
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 199 
 
 cried out with a voice that thrilled the bosoms of her 
 mother and sister 
 
 " He lives ! he lives !" and gave way to a gush of 
 tears. 
 
 This sudden exclamation, of course, brought Mrs. 
 Graham and Mary to the bedside, who instantly com 
 prehended the experiment which Anna had been making 
 and understood the result. The mother, in turn, with 
 trembling hands, lifted the mirror, and held it close to the 
 face of her son. In a moment or two, its surface was 
 obscured, plainly indicating that respiration, though almost 
 imperceptible, was still going on, tfat life still lingered 
 in the feeble body before them. 
 
 Gradually, now, the flame that had well-nigh gone out, 
 kindled up again, but so slowly, that for many hours the 
 mother and sisters were in doubt whether it were really 
 brightening or not. The fever that had continued for 
 several days, exhausting the energies of the young man's 
 system, had let go its hold, because scarcely enough vital 
 energy remained for it to subsist upon. In its subsidence, 
 life trembled on the verge of extinction. But there was 
 yet sufficient stamina for it to rally upon; and it did rally, 
 and gradually, but very slowly, gained strength. 
 
 In an earnest spirit of thankfulness for this restoration 
 of Alfred, did the mother and sisters look up to the Giver 
 of all good, and with tearful devotion pray that there 
 might ensue a moral as well as a physical restoration. 
 For years, they had not felt towards him the deep and 
 yearning tenderness that now warmed their bosoms. 
 They longed to rescue him, not for their sakes, but for his 
 own, from the horrible pit and the miry clay into which 
 he had fallen. 
 
 " O, if we could but save him, sister !" Anna said, as 
 she sat conversing with Mary, after all doubt of his re 
 covery had been removed. " If we could only do some 
 thing to restore our brother to himself, how glad I should 
 be!" 
 
 "I would do anything in my power," Mary replied, 
 " and sacrifice everything that it was right to sacrifice, 
 if, by so doing, I could help Alfred to conquer his beset 
 ting evils. I cannot tell you how I feel about it. It seems 
 as if it would break my heart to have him return again
 
 200 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 into his old habits of life: and yet, what have we to found 
 a hope upon, that he will not so return ?" 
 
 " I feel just as you do about it, Mary," her sister said. 
 " The same yearning desire to save him, and the same 
 hopelessness as to the means." 
 
 " There is one way, it seems to me, in which we might 
 influence him." 
 
 " What is that, Mary ?" 
 
 " Let us manifest towards him, fully, the real affection 
 that we feel ; perhaps that may awaken a chord in his 
 own bosom, and thus lead him, for our sakes, to enter 
 upon a new course o/ life." 
 
 " We can at least try, Mary. It can do no harm, and 
 may result in good." 
 
 With the end of his reformation in view, the two sis 
 ters, during his convalescence, attended him with the 
 most assiduous and affectionate care. The moment Anna 
 would come home from the store at night, she would 
 repair with a smiling countenance to his bedside, and 
 although usually so fatigued as to be compelled to rally 
 her spirits with an effort, she would seem so interested 
 and cheerful and active to minister in some way to his 
 pleasure, that Alfred began to look forward every day as 
 the evening approached, with a lively interest, for her 
 return. This Mary observed, and it gave her hope. 
 
 Three weeks soon passed away, when Alfred was so 
 far recovered as to be able to walk out. 
 
 " Do not walk far, brother," Mary said, laying her hand 
 gently upon his arm, and looking him with affectionate 
 earnestness in the face. " You are very weak, and the 
 fatigue might bring on a relapse." 
 
 " I shall only walk a little way, Mary," he replied, as 
 he opened the door and went out. 
 
 Neither the mother nor sister could utter the fear that 
 each felt, lest Alfred should meet with and fall in tempta 
 tion before he returned. This fear grew stronger and 
 stronger, as the minutes began to accumulate, and lengthen 
 to an hour. A period of ten or fifteen minutes was as 
 long as they had any idea of his remaining away. Where 
 could he be? Had he been taken sick; or was he again 
 yielding to the seductions of a depraved and degrading 
 appetite? The suspense became agonizing to their hearts,
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 201 
 
 as not only one, but two, and even three hours passed, 
 bringing the dim twilight, and yet he returned not. 
 
 In the meantime, the young man, whose appearance 
 the careful hand of Mary and her sister had been render 
 ed far superior to what it had been for years past, went 
 out from his mother's humble dwelling, and took his way 
 slowly down one of the streets, leading to the main por 
 tion of the city, with many thoughts of a painful character 
 passing through his mind. The few weeks that he had 
 been confined to the house, and in constant association 
 with his mother, and one or both of his sisters, who 
 were at home, had startled his mind into reflection. He 
 could not but contrast their constant and affectionate 
 devotion to him, with his own shameful and criminal 
 neglect of them. Conceal her real feelings as she would, 
 it did not escape his notice, that when Anna came home 
 at night, she was so much exhausted as to be hardly able 
 to sit up ; and as for Mary, often when she dreamed not 
 that he was observing her, had he noticed her air of 
 languor and exhaustion, and her half-stifled expression of 
 pain, as she bent resolutely over her needle-work. Never 
 before had he felt so indignant towards Ellen's husband 
 for his neglect and abuse of her, his once favourite sister; 
 and, indeed, the favourite of the whole family. 
 
 It was, to his own mind, a mystery how he ever could 
 have sunk so low, and become so utterly regardless of his 
 mother and sisters. 
 
 " Wretch ! wretch ! miserable wretch that I am !" he 
 would, sometimes, mentally exclaim, turning his face to 
 the wall as he lay reviewing, involuntarily, his past life. 
 Uniformly it happened, that following such a crisis in his 
 feelings, would be some affectionate word or kind atten 
 tion from Mary or his mother, smiting upon his heart with 
 emotions of the keenest remorse. 
 
 It was under the influence of such feelings that he went 
 out on the afternoon just alluded to. Still, no settled plan 
 of reformation had been formed in his mind, for the dis 
 couraging question would constantly arise while ponder 
 ing gloomily over his condition and the condition of the 
 family. 
 
 " What can I do ?" 
 
 To this ; he could find no satisfactory answer. Three
 
 202 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 or four years of debasing drunkenness, had utterly sepa 
 rated him from those who had it in their power to encour 
 age and strengthen his good desires, and to put him in 
 the way of providing for himself and his family, by an 
 industrious application to some kind of business. 
 
 He had walked slowly on, in painful abstraction, for 
 about five minutes, when a hand was laid on his arm, and 
 a familiar voice said 
 
 " Is this you, Graham ! Where in the name of Pluto 
 have you been, for the last three weeks ? Why, how blue 
 you look about the gills ! Havn't been sick, I hope ?" 
 
 " Indeed I have, Harry," Alfred replied, in a feeble 
 voice. " It came very near being all over with me." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, what was the matter ?" 
 
 Raising his hat, and displaying a long and still angry- 
 looking wound on the side of his head, from which the 
 hair had been carefully cut away, he said 
 
 "Do you see that?" 
 
 " I reckon I do." 
 
 "Well, that came very near doing the business for 
 me." 
 
 " How did it happen ?" 
 
 " I hardly know, myself. I was drunk, I suppose, and 
 quarrelled with some one, or insulted some one in the 
 street and this was the consequence." 
 
 " Really, Graham, you have made a narrow escape." 
 
 " Havn't 1 1 It kept me in bed for nearly three weeks, 
 and now, I can just totter about. This is the first time I 
 have been outside of the house since it happened." 
 
 " You certainly do look weak and feeble enough," re 
 plied his old friend and crony, who added, in a moment 
 after, 
 
 " But come ! take a drink with me at the tavern across 
 here. You stand in need of something." 
 
 " No objection, and thank you," Alfred rejoined, at once 
 moving over towards a well-known, low tavern, quench 
 ing in imagination a morbid thirst that seemed instantly 
 created, by a draught of sweetened liquor. 
 
 "What will you take?" asked his friend, as the two 
 came up to the counter. 
 
 " I '11 take a mint sling," Alfred replied.
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 203 
 
 " Two mint slings," said his companion, giving his 
 orders to the bar-keeper. 
 
 " Hallo, Graham ! Is this you?" exclaimed one or two 
 loungers, coming forward, and shaking him heartily by 
 the hand. " We had just made up our minds that you 
 had joined the cold-water army." 
 
 " Indeed !" suddenly ejaculated Graham, an instant 
 consciousness of what he was, where he was, and what 
 he was about to do, flashing over his mind. " I wish to 
 heaven your conclusion had been true !" 
 
 This sudden change in his manner, and his earnestly, 
 indeed solemnly expressed wish, were received with a 
 burst of laughter. 
 
 " Here Dan," said one, to the ba-r-keeper, " havn't you 
 a pledge for him to sign." 
 
 " O, yes ! Bring a pledge ! Bring a pledge ! Has no one 
 a pledge ?" rejoined another, in a tone of ridicule. 
 
 " Yes, here is one," said a man in a firm tone, entering 
 the shop at the moment. " Who wants to sign the 
 pledge ? 
 
 " I do !" Graham said, in a calm voice. 
 
 " Then here it is," the stranger replied, drawing a sheet 
 of paper from his pocket, and unrolling it. 
 
 " Give me a pen Dan," Alfred said, turning to the bar 
 keeper. 
 
 " Indeed, then, and I won't," retorted that individual, 
 "I'm not going to lend a stick to break my own head." 
 
 *' O, never mind, young man, I can supply pen and 
 ink," said the stranger, drawing forth a pocket inkstand. 
 
 Alfred eagerly seized the pen that was offered to him, 
 and instantly subscribed the total abstinence pledge. 
 
 " Another fool caught !" sneered one. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! What a ridiculous farce !" chimed in 
 another. 
 
 " He '11 be rolling in the gutter before three days, feel 
 ing upwards for the ground," added a third. 
 
 " Why, I don't believe he can see through a ladder 
 now," the first speaker said, with his contemptuous sneer. 
 " Look here, mister," to the stranger who had appeared 
 so opportunely. " This is all gammon ! He 's been fool 
 ing you." 
 
 " Come along, my friend," was all the stranger said, 
 25
 
 204 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 drawing his arm within that of the penitent young man, 
 as he did so, " this is no place for you." 
 
 And the two walked slowly out, amid the laughter, 
 sneers, and open ridicule of the brutal company. Once 
 again in the open air, Alfred breathed more freely. 
 
 " O, sir," he said, grasping the hand of the individual 
 who had appeared so opportunely " you have saved me 
 from my last temptation, into which I was led so natural 
 ly, that I had not an idea of danger. If I had fallen then, 
 as I fear I should have fallen but for you, I must have 
 gone down, rapidly, to irretrievable ruin. How can I 
 express to you the grateful emotions that I now feel?" 
 
 " Express them not to me, young man," the stranger 
 said, in a solemn voice ; " but to him, who in his merci 
 ful providence, sent me just at the right moment to meet 
 your last extremity. Look up to him, and, whenever 
 tempted, let your conscious weakness repose in his strength, 
 and no evil power can prevail against you. Be true to 
 the resolution of this hour to your pledge to those who 
 have claims upon you, for such, I know there must be, 
 and you shall yet fill that position of usefulness in society, 
 which no one else but you can occupy. And now let me 
 advise you to go home, and ponder well this act, and your 
 future course. No matter how dark all may now seem, 
 light will spring up. If you are anxious to walk in a 
 right path, and to minister to those who have claims upon 
 you, the way will be made plain. This encouragement I 
 can give you with confidence ; for twelve months ago, 1 
 trembled on the brink of ruin, as you have just been trem 
 bling, /was once a slave to the same wild infatuation 
 that has held you in bondage. Hope, then, with a vigor 
 ous hope, and that hope will be a guarantee for your 
 future elevation !" 
 
 And so saying, the stranger shook the hand of Alfred 
 heartily, and, turning, walked hastily away. 
 
 The young man had proceeded only a few paces when 
 he observed his old friend and companion, Charles Wil 
 liams, driving along towards him. No one had done so 
 much towards corrupting his morals, and enticing him 
 away from virtue, as that individual. But he had check 
 ed himself in his course of dissipation, long before, while 
 Alfred had sunk rapidly downward. Years had oassed
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 205 
 
 since any intercourse had taken place between them, for 
 their condition in life had long been as different as their 
 habits. Charles had entered into business with his father, 
 and was now active and enterprising, increasing the 
 income of the firm by his energy and industry. 
 
 His eye rested upon Graham, the moment he came near 
 enough to observe him. There was something familiar 
 about his gait and manner, that attracted the young man's 
 attention.. At first, he did not distinguish, through the 
 disguise that sickness and self-imposed poverty had thrown 
 over Alfred, his old companion. But, suddenly, as he was 
 about passing, he recognised him, and instantly reined 
 up his horse. 
 
 " It is only a few minutes since I was thinking about 
 you, Alfred," he said. " How are you '( But you do not 
 look well. Have you been sick 1" 
 
 " I have been very ill, lately," Alfred Graham replied, 
 in a mournful tone; former thoughts and feelings rushing 
 back upon him in consequence of this unexpected inter 
 view, and quite subduing him. 
 
 " I am really sorry to hear it," the young man said, 
 sympathizingly. " What has been the matter ?" 
 
 " A slow fever.' This is the first time I have been out 
 for weeks." 
 
 " A ride, then, will be of use to you. Get up, and let 
 me drive you out into the country. The pure air will 
 benefit you, I am sure." 
 
 For "a moment or two, Alfred stood irresolute. He 
 could not believe that he had heard aright. 
 
 "Come," urged Williams. "We have often ridden 
 before, and let us have one more ride, if we should never 
 go out again together. I wish to have some talk with 
 you." 
 
 Thus urged, Alfred, with the assistance of Charles 
 Williams, got up into the light wagon, in which the latter 
 was riding, and in a moment after was dashing off with 
 nim behind a spirited horse. 
 
 It was on the morning of a day, nearly a week previ 
 ous to this time, that Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Har- 
 wood, for Anna and Mary Graham's old friend had 
 
 become a married woman entered the store of Mrs. 
 
 on Chestnut-street, for the purchase of some goods
 
 206 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 While one of the girls in attendance was waiting upon 
 her, she observed a young woman, neatly, but poorly 
 clad, whom she had often seen there before, come in, 
 and go back to the far end of the store. In a little while, 
 Mrs. joined her, and received from her a small pack 
 age, handing her some money in return, when the young 
 woman retired, and walked quickly away. This very 
 operation Mrs. Harwood had several times seen repeated 
 before, and each time she had felt much interested in the 
 timid and retiring stranger, a glance at whose face she 
 had never been able to gain. 
 
 " Who is that young woman ?" she asked of the indi 
 vidual in attendance. 
 
 " She 's a poor girl, that Mrs. buys fine work from, 
 
 out of mere charity, she says." 
 
 " Do you know her name ?" 
 
 " I have heard it, ma'am, but forget it." 
 . "Have you any very fine French worked capes, 
 
 Mrs. ," asked Mrs. Harwood, as the individual she 
 
 addressed came up to that part of the counter where she 
 was standing, still holding in her hand the small package 
 which had been received from the young woman. This 
 Mrs. Harwood noticed. 
 
 " O, yes, ma'am, some of the most beautiful in the 
 city." 
 
 " Let me see them, if you please." 
 
 A box was brought, and its contents, consisting of a 
 number of very rich patterns of the article asked for, 
 displayed. 
 
 " What is the price of this ?" asked Mrs. Harwood, 
 lifting one, the pattern of which pleased her fancy. 
 
 "That is a little damaged," Mrs. replied. "But 
 
 here is one of the same pattern," unrolling the small par 
 cel she had still continued to hold in her hand, " which 
 has just been returned by a lady, to whom I sent it for 
 examination this morning." 
 
 "It is the same pattern, but much more beautifully 
 wrought," Mrs. Harwood said, as she examined it care 
 fully. " These are all French, you say ?" 
 
 " Of course, ma'am. None but French goods come 
 of such exquisite fineness." 
 
 " What do you ask for this ?"
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 207 
 
 " It is worth fifteen dollars, ma'am. The pattern is a 
 rich one, and the work unusually fine." 
 
 " Fifteen dollars ! That is a pretty high price, is it not, 
 Mrs. ?" 
 
 " O, no, indeed, Mrs. Harwood ! It cost me very nearly 
 fourteen dollars and a dollar is a small profit to make on 
 such articles." 
 
 After hesitating for a moment or two, Mrs. Harwood 
 said 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it 
 pleases me." 
 
 And she took out her purse, and paid the price that 
 
 Mrs. had asked. She still stood musing by the side 
 
 of the counter, when the young woman who had awakened 
 her interest a short time before, re-entered, and came up 
 to Mrs. , who was near her. 
 
 " 1 have a favour to ask, Mrs. ," she overheard her 
 
 say, in a half tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" Mrs. coldly asked. 
 
 " I want six dollars more than I have got, for a very 
 particular purpose. Won't you advance me the price of 
 three capes, and I will bring you in one a week, until I 
 have made it up." 
 
 " No, miss," was the prompt and decisive answer " I 
 never pay any one for work not done. Pay beforehand, 
 and never pay, are the two worst kinds of pay !" 
 
 All this was distinctly heard by Mrs. Harwood, and her 
 very heart ached, as she saw the poor girl turn, with a 
 disappointed air, away, and walk slowly out of the 
 store. 
 
 "That's just the way with these people," ejaculated 
 
 Mrs. , in affected indignation, meant to mislead Mrs. 
 
 Harwood, who, she feared, had overheard what the young 
 woman had said. " They 're always trying in some way 
 or other, to get the advantage of you." 
 
 " How so ?" asked Mrs. Harwood, wishing to learn all 
 she could about the stranger who had interested her feel 
 ings. 
 
 " Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing 
 a certain kind of work for me, and the money is always 
 ready for her, the moment her work is done. But, not 
 satisfied with that, she wanted me, just now, to advance
 
 208 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been foolish 
 enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever 
 should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress." 
 
 " Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark. 
 
 " You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, 
 Mrs. Harwood. I 've been tricked too often in my time." 
 
 " Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a 
 pause, 
 
 " What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs. ?" 
 
 " Nothing very particular ; only a little fine work. 1 
 employ her, more out of charity, than anything else." 
 
 "Do you know anything about her?" 
 
 " She 's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I 'm told he 
 died in the Alms-house, a few weeks ago." 
 
 " What old Graham ?' Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick 
 voice. 
 
 " Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few 
 years ago. Quite a tumble-down their pride has had, I 
 reckon ! Why, I remember when nothing in my store 
 was good enough for them. But they are glad enough 
 now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them." 
 
 For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked 
 that she could not reply. At length she asked 
 
 " Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now I" 
 
 " That was Mary." 
 
 " Do you know anything of Anna ?" 
 
 " Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street." 
 
 "And Ellen?" 
 
 " Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses 
 and half starves her. But that 's the way ; pride must 
 have a fall !" 
 
 " Where do they live ?" pursued Mrs. Harwood. 
 
 "Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs. 
 
 replied, tossing her head. 
 
 Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood 
 left the store, well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, 
 
 for which she had paid Mrs. fifteen dollars, had been 
 
 worked by the hands of Mary Graham, for which she 
 received but a mere pittance. 
 
 Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply 
 troubled in mind. She had about three dollars in money, 
 besides the two which Mrs. had paid her. If the
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 209 
 
 six she had asked for had only been advanced, as she 
 fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum, 
 eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, 
 would have enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for 
 their brother, who would be ready in a few days to go 
 out. They were anxious to do this, under the hope, that 
 by providing him with clothes of a more respectable ap 
 pearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be 
 led to think more of himself, seek better company, and 
 thus be further removed from danger. At her first inter 
 view with Mrs. , Mary's heart had failed her and it 
 
 was only after she had left the store and walked some 
 squares homeward, that she could rally herself sufficiently 
 to return and make her request. It was refused, as has 
 been seen. 
 
 " Did Mrs. grant your request ?" was almost the 
 
 first question that Anna asked of her sister that evening, 
 when she returned from the store. 
 
 "No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, 
 the tears rising and almost gushing over her cheeks. 
 
 " Then we will only have to do the best we can with 
 what little we have. We shall not be able to get him a 
 new coat ; but we can have his old one done up, with a 
 new collar and buttons, I priced*, pair of pantaloons at 
 one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I came up 
 this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half. 
 They looked pretty well. There was a vest,' too, for a 
 dollar. I heard one of the young men in the store say, 
 two or three days ago, that he had sold his old hat, which 
 was a very good one, to the hatter, from whom he had 
 bought a new one or rather, that the hatter had taken 
 the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked him 
 a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, 
 and sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed 
 for them. One of these I will try to get, even if a good 
 deal worn; it will look far better than the one he has at 
 present." 
 
 " In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, " we 
 can still get him fitted up respectably. O, how glad 1 
 shall be ! Don't you think, sister, that we have good rea 
 son to hope for him ?" 
 
 " I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles
 
 210 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 with fearful apprehensions when I think of his going out 
 among his old associates again. It will be little less than 
 a miracle if he should not fall." 
 
 " Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let 
 us hope so strongly for the best, that our very hope shall 
 compass its own fruition. He cannot, he must not, go 
 back !" 
 
 Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined 
 to droop and despond, but she did not wish to have her 
 sister's droop and despond likewise. One reason for her 
 saddened feelings arose from the fact, that she had a pain 
 ful consciousness that she should not long be able to retain 
 her present situation. Her health was sinking so rapidly, 
 that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which 
 lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily 
 weakness, that she was at all enabled to get through with 
 her duties. This she was conscious could not last long. 
 
 On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from 
 her bed, she became so faint and sick that she was com 
 pelled to lie down again. The feeling of alarm that in 
 stantly thrilled through her bosom, lest she should no 
 longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother, 
 and especially of her brother at this important crisis in 
 his life, acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and 
 endowed her with a degree of artificial strength that 
 enabled her to make another and more successful effort 
 to resume her wearying toil. 
 
 But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced 
 herself to take a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, 
 that she lingered for nearly half an hour longer than her 
 usual time of starting in order to allow her system to get 
 a little braced up, so that she could stand the long walk 
 she had to take. 
 
 " Good by, brother," she said in a cheerful tone, com 
 ing up to the bed upon which Alfred lay, and stooping 
 down and kissing him. " You must try and sit up as 
 much as you can to-day." 
 
 " Good by, Anna. I wish you didn't have to go away 
 and stay so long." 
 
 To this, Anna could not trust herself to reply. She 
 only pressed tightly the hand she held in her own, and 
 then turned quickly away.
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 211 
 
 It was nearly three quarters of an hour later than the 
 time the different clerks were required to be at the store, 
 when Anna came in, her side and head both paining her 
 badly, in consequence of having walked too fast. 
 
 " It 's three quarters of an hour behind the time," the 
 storekeeper said, with a look and tone of displeasure, as 
 he drew out his watch. " I can't have such irregularity 
 in my store, Miss Graham. This is the third time within 
 a few days, that you have come late." 
 
 A reply instantly rose to Anna's tongue, but she felt 
 that it would be useless and would, perhaps, provoke 
 remarks deeply wounding to her feelings. She paused, 
 therefore, only a moment, with a bowed head, to receive 
 her rebuke, and then passed quickly, and with a meek, 
 subdued air, to her station behind the counter. There 
 were some of her fellow-clerks who felt for and pitied 
 Anna there were others who experienced a pleasure in 
 hearing her reproved. 
 
 All through that day, with only the respite of some ten 
 or fifteen minutes, when she retired to eat alone the frugal 
 repast of bread and cold meat that she had brought with 
 her for her dinner, did Anna stand behind the shop-man's 
 counter, attending to his customers with a cheerful air 
 and often a smiling countenance. She spoke to no one 
 of the pain in her breast, back, and side ; and none of 
 those around her dreamed that, from extreme lassitude, 
 she could scarcely stand beside the counter. 
 
 To her, suffering as she did, the hours passed slowly 
 and heavily away. It seemed as if evening would never 
 come as if she would have to yield the struggle, much 
 as she strove to keep up for the sake of those she loved. 
 
 But even to the weary, the heavy laden, and the prison 
 er, the slow lingering hours at length pass on, and the 
 moment of respite comes. The shadows of evening at 
 last began to fall dimly around, and Anna retired from 
 her position of painful labour, and took her way home 
 ward. But not even the anticipation of speedily joining 
 those she loved, had power so to buoy up her spirits,' that 
 her body could rise above its depressed- and weakened 
 condition. Her weary steps were slowly taken, and it 
 seemed to her that she should never be able to reach home. 
 Many, very many depressing thoughts passed through her 
 
 26 

 
 212 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 mind as she proceeded slowly on her homeward way. The 
 condition of her sister Ellen troubled her exceedingly. 
 About one-third of her own and Mary's earnings were 
 required to keep her and her little ones from absolute suf 
 fering ; and Mary, like herself, she too plainly perceived 
 to be rapidly sinking under her burdens. 
 
 " What is to be done when we fail, heaven only knows !" 
 she murmured, as a vivid consciousness of approaching 
 extremity arose in her mind. 
 
 As she said this, the idea of her brother presented 
 itself, with the hope that he would now exert for them a 
 sustaining and supporting energy that he would be to 
 them at last a brother. But this thought, that made her 
 heart leap in her bosom, she put aside with an audible 
 
 " No, no, Do not rest on such a feeble hope !" 
 
 At last her hand was upon the latch, and she lifted it 
 and entered. 
 
 " I am glad to see you home again, Anna," Alfred said, 
 with an expression of real pleasure and affection, as she 
 came in. 
 
 " And I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so 
 well, brother," Anna replied, her gloomy thoughts at once 
 vanishing. " How do you feel now ?" 
 
 " O, I feel much better, sister. In a few days I hope I 
 shall be able to go out. But how are you 1 It seems to 
 me that you do not look well." 
 
 "I do feel very much fatigued, Alfred," Anna said, 
 while her tone, in spite of her effort to make it appear 
 cheerful, became sad. " We are not permitted in our 
 store to sit down for a moment, and I get so tired by 
 night that I can hardly keep up." 
 
 "But surely, Anna, you do not stand up all day long." 
 
 "Yes. Since I left this morning, I have been standing 
 every moment, with the exception of the brief period I 
 took to eat my dinner." 
 
 This simple statement smote upon the heart of the 
 young man, and made him silent and thoughtful. He felt 
 that, but for his neglect of duty but for his abandonment 
 of himself to sensual and besotting pleasures, this suffer 
 ing, this self-devotion need not be. 
 
 Anna saw that what she had said was paining the mind 
 of her brother, and she grieved that she had been betray-
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 213 
 
 ed into making any allusion to herself. To restore again 
 the pleased expression to Alfred's countenance, she dex 
 terously changed the subject to a more cheerful one, and 
 was rewarded for her effort by seeing his eye again 
 brighten and the smile again playing about his lips. 
 
 Instead of sitting down after tea and assisting Mary 
 with her embroidery, as she usually did, Anna took a 
 book and read aloud for the instruction and amusement 
 of all; but most for the sake of Alfred that he might 
 feel with them a reciprocal pleasure, and thus be enabled 
 to perceive that there was something substantial to fall 
 back upon, if he would only consent to abandon the 
 bewildering and insane delights to which he had given 
 himself up for years. The effect she so much desired 
 was produced upon the mind of her brother. He did, 
 indeed, feel, springing up within him, a new-born plea 
 sure, and wondered to himself how he could so long 
 have strayed away from such springs of delight, to seek 
 bitter waters in a tangled and gloomy wilderness. 
 
 When the tender good-night was at' last said, and Mary 
 stretched her wearied limbs in silent thoughtfulness beside 
 her sister, there was a feeble hope glimmering in the dark 
 and gloomy abyss of doubt and despondency that had set 
 tled upon her mind a hope that her brother would go 
 forth from his sick chamber a changed man. On this hope, 
 fancy conjured up scenes and images of delight, upon 
 which her mind dwelt in pleased and dreamy abstraction, 
 until sleep stole upon her, and locked up her senses. 
 
 When she awoke, it was with the same sinking sensa 
 tion that she had experienced on the morning previous, 
 and, indeed, on every morning for many months past. 
 The remembrance of the rebuke she had received on the 
 day before for being late at her place of business, acted 
 as a kind of stimulant to arouse her to exertion, so as t& 
 be able to get off in time. It was, however, a few 
 minutes past the hour when she entered the store, the 
 owner of which looked at his watch, significantly, as she 
 did so. 
 
 This day passed, as the previous one had, in pain and 
 extreme weariness and so did the next, and the next, the 
 poor girl's strength failing her too perceptibly. During 
 this time, Alfred's coat had been repaired, a pair of panta-
 
 214 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 loons and a vest bought for him, and also a second-hand 
 hat of very respectable appearance all ready so soon as 
 he should be strong enough to venture out. How anxi 
 ously, and yet in fear and trembling, did the sisters look 
 forward to that period, which was to strengthen their 
 feeble hopes, or scatter them to the winds ! 
 
 " I do really feel very ill," Anna said, sinking back upon 
 her pillow, after making an attempt to rise, one morning 
 some four or five days after that on which Mary has been 
 represented as endeavouring to get an advance from 
 Mrs. . 
 
 " What is the matter ?" Mary inquired kindly. 
 
 "My head aches most violently and grows confused 
 so soon as I attempt to rise." 
 
 " Then I would lie still, Anna." 
 
 " No, I must be up, and getting ready to go to the 
 store." 
 
 " I wouldn't go down to the store, if I were you, Anna. 
 You had better rest for a day." 
 
 " I cannot afford to lose a day," Anna said, again rising 
 in bed, and sitting upright, until the swimming in her 
 head, that commenced upon the least motion, had subsided. 
 Then she got out upon the floor, and stood for a few mo 
 ments, while her head seemed reeling, and she every 
 instant about to sink down. In a little while this dizzi 
 ness went off, but her head throbbed and ached with 
 aggravated violence. 
 
 At breakfast, she forced herself to swallow a small 
 portion of food, although her stomach loathed it ; and 
 then, with trembling limbs and a feeling of faintness, she 
 went out into the open air, and took her way to the store. 
 The fresh breeze, as it fell coolingly on her fevered fore 
 head, revived her in a degree ; but long ere she had 
 reached the store her limbs were sinking under her with 
 excessive fatigue. 
 
 "Late again, miss " said her employer, as she came 
 in, with a look of stern reproof. 
 
 "I have not been very well, sir," Anna replied, lifting 
 her pale, languid face, and looking appealingly into the 
 countenance of the store-keeper. 
 
 " Then you should stay at home altogether, Miss," was
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 215 
 
 his cold response, as he turned away, leaving her to pro 
 ceed to her accustomed station at the counter. 
 
 The day happening to be one of unusual activity in 
 business, Anna was kept so constantly busy, that she could 
 not find a moment in which to relieve the fatigue she felt 
 by even leaning on the counter. Customer after customer 
 came and went, and box after box was taken from, and 
 replaced again upon the shelves, in what seemed to her 
 an endless round. Sometimes her head ached so violent 
 ly, that it was with difficulty she could see to attend cor 
 rectly to her business. And sometimes she was compel 
 led to steady herself by holding to the counter to prevent 
 sinking to the floor, from a feeling of faintness, suddenly 
 passing over her. Thus she held bravely on, under the 
 feeble hope that her indisposition, as she tried mentally to 
 term it, would wear off. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that the fever 
 which had been very high all through the day, began to 
 subside. This symptom she noticed with an emotion of 
 pleasure, as indicating a heallhy reaction in her system. 
 
 It was but half an hour after, that she sunk, fainting, to 
 the floor, at her place beside the counter. When the 
 fever abated, exhausted nature gave way. 
 
 For nearly an hour she remained insensible. And it 
 was nearly two hours before she had so far recovered as 
 to be able to walk, when she was suffered to go away 
 unattended. It was seven o'clock, when, with a face 
 almost as white as ashes, and nearly sinking to the 
 ground with weakness, she arrived at home, and opening 
 the door, slowly entered. 
 
 " O, Anna ! What ails you ?" exclaimed her mother. 
 
 " I feel very sick," the poor girl replied, sinking into a 
 chair. " But where is Alfred ?" she asked, in a quicker 
 tone, in which was a strong expression of anxiety, as she 
 glanced her eye about the room, in a vain search for him. 
 
 " He has walked out," Mary said. 
 
 " Has he !" ejaculated Anna. " How long has he been 
 away ?" 
 
 " It is now nearly four hours," Mary said, endeavour 
 ing to conceal the distress she felt, in pity for her sister, 
 who was evidently quite ill. 
 
 " Four hours !" exclaimed Anna, her face blanching to
 
 V ** 
 
 216 THE RUINED FAMILY, 
 
 a still whiter hue. " Four hours ! And do you not know 
 where he is ?" 
 
 "Indeed we do not, Anna. He went out to- take a 
 short walk, and said he would not be gone more than ten 
 or twenty minutes." 
 
 Anna did not reply, but turned slowly away, and enter 
 ing her chamber, threw herself exhausted upon her bed, 
 feeling so utterly wretched, that she breathed an audible 
 wish that she might die. In about ten minutes a carriage 
 stopped at the door ; and in a moment after, amid the 
 rattling of departing wheels, Alfred entered, looking bet 
 ter and happier than he had looked for a long, long time. 
 A single glance told the mother and sister that all was 
 right. 
 
 " O, brother ! How could you stay away so long ?" 
 Mary said, springing to his side, and grasping tightly his 
 arm. 
 
 " I did not expect, when I walked out, that it would be 
 so long before I returned, Mary," he replied, kissing her 
 cheek affectionately. "But I met with an old, though 
 long estranged friend, who seeing that I had been ill, and 
 needed fresh air, insisted on taking me out into the coun 
 try in his carriage. I could but consent. I was, how 
 ever, so weak, as to be obliged to go to bed, when about 
 three miles from the city, and lie there for a couple of 
 hours. But I feel well, very well now ; and have some 
 good news to tell you. But where is Anna?" 
 
 " She has just come in, and gone up to her chamber. I 
 do not think her at all well to-night," Mary said. 
 
 " Poor girl ! She is sacrificing herself for the good of 
 others," Alfred remarked, with tenderness and interest. 
 
 " Shall I call her down ?" Mary asked. 
 
 " O, yes, by all means." 
 
 Mary went up and found her sister lying across the 
 bed, with her face buried in a pillow. 
 
 "Anna! Anna!" she said, taking hold of her and 
 shaking her gently. 
 
 Anna immediately arose, and looking wildly around her, 
 muttered something that her sister could not comprehend. 
 
 " Anna, brother's come home." 
 
 But she did not seem to comprehend her meaning. 
 
 The glaring brightness of Anna's eyes, and her flushed
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 217 
 
 cheeks, convinced Mary that all was not right. Stepping 
 to the head of the stairs, she called to Alfred, who instant 
 ly came up. 
 
 " Here is Alfred, Anna," she said, as she re-entered the 
 chamber, accompanied by her brother. 
 
 For a moment or two, Anna looked upon him with a 
 vacant stare, and then closing her eyes, sunk back upon 
 the bed, murmuring 
 
 " It is all over all over." 
 
 " What is all over, Anna ?" her sister asked. 
 
 " What is all over ?" the sick girl responded, in a sharp, 
 quick tone, rising suddenly, and staring at Mary with a 
 fixed look. " Why, it 's all over with him ! Havn't I 
 drained my heart's blood for him ? Havn't I stood all day 
 at the counter for his sake, when I felt that I was dying ? 
 But it 's all over now ! He is lost, and I shall soon be out 
 of this troublesome world !" 
 
 And then the poor half-conscious girl, covered her face 
 with her hands and sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Don't do so, dear sister !" Alfred said, pressing up to 
 the bedside, and drawing his arm around her. "Don't 
 give way so ! You won't have to stand at the counter 
 any longer. I am Alfred your brother your long lost, 
 but restored brother, who will care for you and work for 
 you as you have so long cared for and worked for him. 
 Take courage, dear sister ! There are better and happier 
 days for you. Do not give up now, at the very moment 
 when relief is at hand." 
 
 Anna looked her brother in the face for a few moments, 
 steadily, as her bewildered senses gradually returned, and 
 she began to comprehend truly what he said, and that it 
 was indeed her brother who stood thus before her, and 
 thus appealed to her with affectionate earnestness. 
 
 " O, Alfred," the almost heart-broken creature, said 
 as she bent forward, and leaned her head upon his bosom 
 " Heaven be praised, if you are really and truly in earn 
 est in what you say!" 
 
 " I am most solemnly in earnest, dear sister !" the young 
 man said, with fervency and emphasis. " Since I saw 
 you this morning, I have signed my name to the total 
 abstinence pledge, and I will die before that pledge shall 
 be broken ! And that is not all. I met Charles Williams
 
 218 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 immediately after that act, and have had a long interview 
 with him. He confessed to me that he had often felt that 
 he was much to blame for having first introduced me into 
 dissipated company, and that he now desired to aid me 
 in reforming and assisting my mother and sisters, if 1 
 would only try and abandon my past evil courses. I re 
 sponded most gladly to his generous interest, and he then 
 told me, that if I would enter his and his father's store as 
 a clerk, he would make my salary at once a thousand 
 dollars per annum. Of course I assented to the arrange 
 ment with thankfulness. Dear mother ! Dear sisters ! 
 There is yet, I trust, a brighter day in store for you." 
 
 " May our Heavenly Father cause these good resolu 
 tions to abide for ever, my son !" Mrs. Graham, who had 
 followed her children up stairs, said, with tearful earnest 
 ness. 
 
 " He will cause them to abide, mother, I know that he 
 will," Alfred replied. 
 
 Just at that moment some one entered below imme 
 diately after quick feet ascended the stairs, and Ellen 
 bounded into the room. 
 
 " O, I have such good news to tell !" she exclaimed, 
 panting for breath as she entered. "My husband has 
 joined the reformers ! I felt so glad that I had to run over 
 and let you know. O, aint it good news, indeed !" And 
 the poor creature clapped her hands together in an ecstacy 
 of delight. 
 
 " It is truly good news, my child," Mrs. Graham said, 
 as she drew her arm about the neck of Ellen. " And we 
 too have glad tidings. Alfred has joined them also, and 
 has got a situation at a thousand dollars a year." 
 
 Ellen, who had always loved her brother, tenderly, 
 notwithstanding his vile habit of life, turned quickly 
 towards him, and flinging her arms about his neck, said 
 while the tears gushed from her eyes, 
 
 "Dear brother! I have never wholly despaired of this 
 hour. Truly, my cup of joy is full and running over !" 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock on the next day, as Mary 
 and her mother sat conversing by the side of the bed upon 
 which lay Anna, now too ill to sit up, that a knock was 
 heard below. Mrs. Graham went down and opened the 
 door, when an elegantly dressed lady entered, calling her
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 219 
 
 by name as she did so, at the same time asking for Anna 
 and Mary. 
 
 She was shown up stairs by the mother, who did not 
 recognise her, although both voice and face seemed 
 familiar. On entering the chamber, Mary turned to her 
 and exclaimed 
 
 " Mary Williams ! Is it possible !" 
 
 " And Mary Graham, is it indeed possible that I see 
 you thus !" (kissing her) " And Anna is that pale, worn 
 face, the face of my old friend and companion, Anna 
 Graham'?" And she bent down over the bed and kissed 
 the lips and cheek of the sick girl, tenderly, while her 
 eyes grew dim with tears. "How changed in a few short 
 years !" she added, as she took a proffered chair. "Who 
 could have dreamed, seven years ago, that we should 
 ever meet thus!" 
 
 In a short time, as the first shock and surprise of meet 
 ing passed off, Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood, 
 entered into a serious conversation with Mrs. Graham, 
 and her daughters, in. reference to the past, the present, 
 and the future. After learning all that she could of their 
 history since their father's failure, which was detailed 
 without disguise by Mary Anna was too feeble to con 
 verse Mrs. Harwood turned to Mary and asked sud 
 denly 
 
 " Do you know this cape, Mary ?" alluding to one she 
 had on. 
 
 " O, yes very well." 
 
 " You worked it, did you not ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " For what price 1" 
 
 " Two dollars." 
 
 f( Is it possible ! I bought it of Mrs. for French, 
 
 and paid her for it fifteen dollars." 
 
 " Fifteen dollars !" ejaculated Mary, in surprise. " How 
 shamefully that woman has imposed upon me ! During 
 the last two years, I have worked at least one hundred 
 capes for her, each of which brought me in only two 
 dollars. No doubt she has regularly sold them for French 
 goods, at from ten to fifteen dollars apiece." 
 
 " No doubt of it. I, myself, have bought several from 
 her during that time at high prices, all of which may 
 27
 
 220 THE RUINED FAMILY. 
 
 have been worked by you. I saw you in her store a few 
 days ago, but did not recognise you, although your ap 
 pearance, as it did several times there before, attracted 
 my attention. I had my suspicions, after I had learned 
 
 from Mrs. who you were, that you had wrought 
 
 this cape, and from having overheard you ask her for an 
 advance of six dollars, as the price of three capes, was 
 pretty well satisfied that two dollars was all you received 
 for it. I at once determined to seek you out, and try to 
 aid you in your severe struggle with the world. It was 
 only last evening that I learned from my brother where 
 you lived and I also learned, what rejoiced my heart, 
 that there was about occurring a favourable change in 
 your circumstances. If, however, your health should 
 permit, and your inclination prompt you to do so, I will 
 take care that you get a much better price for any capes 
 that you may hereafter work. They are richly worth 
 ten and twelve dollars apiece, and at that price, I have no 
 doubt but that I can get sales for many." 
 
 "Bless you, Mary! Bless you!" Anna said, smiling 
 through gushing tears, as she rose up in the bed, and bent 
 over towards her old friend and companion. ' Your words 
 have fallen upon my heart like a healing balsam !" 
 
 Mrs. Harwood came forward, and received the head of 
 Anna upon her bosom, while she drew an arm round her 
 waist, and bent down and pressed her with tenderness 
 and affection. 
 
 A better day had truly dawned upon this ruined and 
 deeply afflicted family. Mrs. Harwood and her brother 
 continued to be their steady friends. For a year Alfred 
 remained in his new situation as an efficient clerk, and at 
 the end of that time had his salary advanced. During 
 that period, Mary, and Anna, whose health had become 
 measurably restored, employed all their spare time in 
 embroidery, which, at the excellent prices which, through 
 the aid of Mrs. Harwood, they were enabled to get for 
 their really beautiful work, brought in a handsome addi 
 tion to their brother's earnings, and this enabled them to 
 live in independence, comfort and respectability. As for 
 Ellen, her husband had become truly a reformed man, 
 and provided for her comfortably.
 
 THE RUINED FAMILY. 221 
 
 It is now nearly two years since this happy change 
 took place, and there is every appearance that another 
 and a still happier one is about to occur in reference to 
 Anna. Charles Williams is seen very often, of late, 
 riding out with her and attending her to public places. 
 The reader can easily guess the probable result. If there 
 is not a wedding-party soon, then appearances, in this 
 case at least, are very deceptive.
 
 THE 
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM, 
 
 " How much have you taken in to-day, Sandy ?" asked 
 a modern rum-seller of his bar-tender, after the doors and 
 windows of his attractive establishment were closed for 
 the night. 
 
 " Only about a dollar, Mr. Graves. I never saw such 
 dull times in my life." 
 
 " Only about a dollar ! Too bad ! too bad ! I shall be 
 ruined at this rate." 
 
 " I really don't know what ails the people now. But 
 'spose it 's these blamenation temperance folks that 's doin' 
 all the mischief." 
 
 " We must get up something new, Sandy ; something 
 to draw attention to our house." 
 
 " So I 've been a thinkin'. Can't we get George Wash 
 ington Dixon to walk a plank for us ? That would draw 
 crowds, you know; and then every feller a'most that we 
 got in here would take a drink." 
 
 "We can't get him, Sandy. He's secured over at 
 
 the . But, any how, the people are getting up to that 
 
 kind of humbuggery ; and I 'm a/raid, that, like the In 
 dian's gun, it would cost in the end more than it came to." 
 
 " Couldn't we get a maremaid ?' 
 
 " A mermaid 1" 
 
 " Yes, a maremaid. You know they had one in town 
 t'other day. It would be a prime move, if we could only 
 do it. We might fix her up here, just back of where I 
 stand, so that every feller who called to see it would have 
 to come up to the bar, front-face. There 'd be no back 
 ing out then, you know, without ponying up for a drink. 
 No one would be mean enough, after seeing a real mare 
 maid for nothing, to go away without shelling out a fip 
 for a glass of liquor." 
 
 " Nonsense, Sandy ! Where are we to get a mermaid ?" 
 " Where did they get that one from 1" 
 222
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 223 
 
 " That was brought from Japan ; and was a monkey's 
 head and body sewed on to a fish's tail, so they say." * 
 
 " Well, can't we send to Japan as well as any one ? 
 And as to its being a monkey's head on a fish's tail, that's 
 no concern. It would only make a better gull-trap." 
 
 " And wait some two years before it arrived ? Humph ! 
 If that 's the only thing that will save me, I shall go to the 
 dogs in spite of the " 
 
 " Don't swear, Mr. Graves. It 's a bad habit, though I 
 am guilty of it myself," the bar-tender said, with vulgar 
 familiarity. " But, why need we wait two years for a 
 maremaid ?" 
 
 ' Did you ever study geography, Sandy ?" 
 
 'Jografy?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 'What's that?" 
 
 Why, the maps, at school." 
 
 ' I warn't never to school." 
 
 " Then you don't know how far Japan is from here ?'* 
 
 " Not exactly. But 'spose it 's some twenty or thirty 
 miles." 
 
 " Twenty or thirty miles ! It 's t'other side of the 
 world !" 
 
 "O, dear! Then we can't get a maremaid, after all. 
 But 'spose we try and get a live snake." 
 
 " That won't do." 
 
 "Why riot?" 
 
 " A live snake is no great curiosity." 
 
 " Yes, but you know we could call it some outlandish 
 name; or say that it was dug up fifty feet below the 
 ground, out of a solid rock, and was now all alive and 
 doin' well." 
 
 " It wouldn't do, Sandy." 
 
 " Now I think it would, prime." 
 
 " It might if these temperance folks were not so con 
 founded thick about here, interfering with a man and pre 
 venting him making an honest living. If it wasn't for 
 them, I should be clearing five or ten dollars a day, as 
 easy as nothing." 
 
 " Confound them ! I say," was Sandy's hearty response, 
 while he clenched his fist, and ground his teeth together. 
 " If I had a rope round the necks of every mother's son
 
 224 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 of 'em, wouldn't I serve 'em as old Julus Cesar did the 
 Hottentots ? Wouldn't I though ! But what could they say 
 or do about it, Mr. Graves." 
 
 " They 'd pretty quick put it on to us in their temper 
 ance papers about the good device we had. They 'd talk 
 pretty fast about the serpent that seduced Eve, and all 
 that. ' No, blast 'em ! A snake won't do, Sandy." 
 
 " How will a monkey do ?" 
 
 " A monkey might answer, if he was a little cuter than 
 common. But we can't get one handy." 
 
 " Try a band of music." 
 
 " That would soon wear out ; and then we should have 
 to get up something else, and the people would suspect us 
 of trying to gull them." 
 
 " Then what is to be done, Mr. Graves ? We can never 
 stand it at this rate." 
 
 " I 'm sure I don't know." And the rum-seller leaned 
 upon his bar, and looked quite sad and dejected. 
 
 " I wonder what has become of Bill Riley ?" he at 
 length asked, rising up with a sigh. "He hasn't been 
 here for a week." 
 
 " Dick Hilton told me to-day that he believed he had 
 joined the teetotallers." 
 
 " I feared as much. He was one of my very best cus 
 tomers ; worth a clear dollar and a half a week to me, 
 above the cost of the liquors, the year round. And Tom 
 Jones ? Where can he be ?" 
 
 " Gone, too." 
 
 " Tom Jones ?" in surprise. 
 
 " It 's a fact. They got him on the same night Bill 
 Riley was caught." 
 
 " Foolish fellow, to go and throw himself away in that 
 style ! Them temperance men will get from him every 
 dollar he can earn, to build Temperance Halls, and get 
 up processions, and buy clothes for lazy, loafing vaga 
 bonds, that had a great sight better be sent to the poor- 
 house. It is too bad. My very blood boils when I think 
 what fools men are." 
 
 " And there 's Harry Peters, Dick Hilton told me that 
 he 'd gone, too." 
 
 " Not Harry Peters, surely !" 
 
 " Yes. He hasn't been near our house for several days.
 
 DREAM. 225 
 
 " Well, something must be done to get up a new set of 
 customers, or we are gone. We must invent some new 
 drink." 
 
 "What shall it be?" 
 
 "O, that's no consequence. The name must be 
 taking." 
 
 " Have you thought of one ?" 
 
 "No. Can't you think of something?" 
 
 " Well Let me see. But I 'm sure I don't know what 
 would do." 
 
 "What do you think of 'Bank Stock?' That would 
 attract attention." 
 
 " I can't say that I like it." 
 
 " Or ' Greasers ?' " 
 
 " Most too vulgar." 
 
 "So I think myself. Suppose we call it a ' Mummy ?' " 
 
 "I'm afraid it wouldn't go. It ought to have 'Im 
 perial,' or ' Nectar,' or something like that about it." 
 
 " O, yes, I see your notion. But they 've all been used 
 up long ago. It must be some entirely new name, which, 
 at the same time, will hit a popular idea. As ' Tariff,' or 
 Compromise.' " 
 
 " I see now. Well, can't you hammer out something ?" 
 
 " I must try. Let me see. How will ' Sub-Treasury' 
 do?" 
 
 " Capital ! ' Graves' Sub-Treasury* will be just the 
 thing. You see, the young-fellows will say 'Why, 
 what kind of a new drink is this they 've been getting up, 
 down at the Harmony House ?' 
 ' ' I don't know What is it?' 
 ' ' The Sub-Treasury, they call it. 
 ' ' Have you tried it yet ?' 
 < 'No.' 
 
 "Well, come, let's give him a call. Novelty, you 
 know, is the order of the day.' 
 
 " That 's the way these matters work, Mr. Graves. But 
 how are you going to make it?" 
 
 " I 've not thought of that. But anything will do. 
 Liquor tastes good to 'em any way you choose to 
 fix it.' 
 
 " True enough. You can leave that paft to me. I '11 
 hatch up something that will tickle as it goes down, and
 
 226 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 make 'em wish their throats were a miie long, that they 
 might taste it all the way." 
 
 " Have you tried Graves' new drink yet, Joe ?" asked 
 one young man of another, a day or two after the con 
 versation just noted took place. 
 
 No. What is it?" 
 
 " Sub-Treasury." 
 
 " Sub-Treasury ? That must be something new. 1 
 wonder what it is ?" 
 
 " I 've just been wondering the same thing. Suppose 
 we go down and try it." 
 
 " I was about swearing off from ever tasting another 
 drop of liquor. But, I believe I will try a ' Sub-Trea 
 sury' with you, just for the fun of the thing." 
 
 " Well, come along then." 
 
 And so the two started off for the Harmony House. 
 
 " Give us a couple of Sub-Treasuries," said one of 
 them as they entered ; and forthwith a couple of glasses 
 filled with mixed liquors, crushed ice, lemonpeel, and 
 snow-white sugar, were prepared, and a ^straw placed in 
 each, through which the young men " imbibed" the new 
 compound. 
 
 " Really, this is fine, Nelson !" said the one, called Joe, 
 smacking his lips. 
 
 " It is, indeed. You '11 make your fortune out of this, 
 Graves." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" the pleased liquor-seller responded, 
 with a broad smile of satisfaction. 
 
 "I've not the least doubt of it," Joe, or Joseph Ban 
 croft, said, " I had half resolved to join the temperance 
 society this day. But your ' Sub-Treasury' has shaken 
 my resolution. I shall never be able to do it now in this 
 world, nor in the next, either, if I can only get you in the 
 same place with me to make 'Sub-Treasury!'' Ha! ha! 
 ha!" 
 
 " A Sub-Treasury," said another young man, coming 
 up to the bar. 
 
 "Here, landlord, let us have one of your what do 
 you call 'em ? O, Sub-Treasuries !" was the request of 
 another. 
 
 " Hallo, Sandy! What new-fangled stuff is this you've 
 got?" broke in a half-drunken creature, staggering up, and
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 227 
 
 holding on to the bar-railing. " Let us have one, will 
 you?" 
 
 Both Sandy and Graves were now kept as busy as they 
 could be, mixing liquors and serving customers. The 
 advertisement which had been inserted in two or three of 
 the morning papers, in the following words, had answered 
 fully the rum-sellers' expectations. 
 
 "Drop in at the HARMONY HOUSE, and try a 
 ' Sub-Treasury.' * What is a Sub-Treasury ?' you ask. 
 Come and see for yourself, and taste for yourself. Old 
 Graves' word for it, you '11 never want anything else to 
 wet your whistle with, as long as you live." 
 
 All through the forenoon the run was kept up steadily, 
 dozens of new faces appearing at the bar, and cheering 
 the heart of the tavern-keeper with the prospect of a fresh 
 set of customers. About two o'clock, succeeded a pause. 
 
 "That works admirably, don't it, Sandy?" said Mr. 
 Graves, as soon as the bar-room was perfectly clear, for 
 the first time, since morning. 
 
 " Indeed, it does. They havn't given me time to blow. 
 But aint some folks easily gulled?" 
 
 " Easily enough, Sandy. This Sub-Treasury they think 
 something wonderful. But it's only rum after all, by 
 another name, and in a little different form. A ' cobbler,' 
 or a 'julep' has lost its attractions; but get up some new 
 name for an old compound, and you go all before the 
 wind again." 
 
 " I think we might tempt some of the new converts to 
 temperance with this. Bill Riley, for instance." 
 
 " No doubt. I '11 see if I can't come across Bill ; he is 
 too good a customer to lose." 
 
 And so saying, Mr. Graves retired from the bar-room, 
 to get his dinner, feeling better satisfied with himself than 
 he had been for a long time. After eating heartily, and 
 drinking freely, he went into his handsomely furnished 
 parlour, and reclined himself upon a sofa, thinking still, 
 and with a pleasurable emotion that warmed his bosom, 
 of the success of his expedient to draw custom. He had 
 been lying down, it seemed to him, but a few moments, 
 when a tap at the door, to which he responded with a 
 loud " come in," was followed by the entrance of a thin, 
 pale, haggard-looking creature, her clothes soiled, and 
 2S
 
 228 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 hanging loosely, and in tatters about her attenuated body. 
 By the hand she held a little girl, from whose young face 
 had faded every trace of childhood's happy expression. 
 She, too, was thin and pale, and had a fixed, stony look, 
 of hopeless suffering. They came up to where he still 
 lay upon the sofa, and stood looking down upon him in 
 silence. 
 
 " Who are you? What do you want?" the rum-seller 
 ejaculated, raising himself up with a strange feeling about 
 his heart. 
 
 " The wife and child of one of your victims ! He is 
 dying, and wishes to see you." 
 
 "Who is he? What is his name?" asked the tavern- 
 keeper, while his face grew pale, and his lips quivered. 
 
 " William Riley," was the mournful reply. 
 
 " Go home, woman ! Go home ! I cannot go with you ! 
 What good can I do your husband ?" 
 
 " You must go ! You shall go !" shrieked the wretched 
 being, suddenly grasping the arm of Mr. Graves, with a 
 tight grip, while her hand seemed to burn his arm, as if it 
 were a hand of fire. 
 
 A sudden and irresistible impulse to obey the call of the 
 dying man came over him, and as he arose mechanically, 
 the mother and her child turned towards the door, and he 
 followed after them. On emerging into the street, he 
 became conscious of a great and sudden change in ex 
 ternal nature. On retiring from his bar an hour before, 
 the sun was shining in a sky of spotless beauty. Now 
 the heavens were shrouded in dense masses of black 
 clouds that were whirling here and there in immense 
 eddies, or careering across the skvwas if driven by a fierce 
 and mighty wind. But below, arMas hushed and pulse 
 less as the grave ; and the stagnant air felt like the hot 
 vapour over an immense furnace. The tavern-keeper 
 would have paused and returned so soon as he became 
 conscious of this fearful change, portending the approach 
 of a wild storm; but his conductors seemed to know his 
 thoughts; and turning, each fixed upon him a stern and 
 threatening look, whose strange power he could neither 
 resist nor understand. 
 
 " Come," said the mother in a hollow, husky voice ; and 
 then turned and moved on again, while the tavern-keeper
 
 RUMrSELLER's DREAM 229 
 
 followed impulsively. They had proceeded thus, for only 
 a few paces, when a fierce light glanced through half the 
 sky, followed by a deafening crash, under the concussion 
 of which the earth trembled as if shaken to its very 
 centre. The tavern-keeper again paused in shrinking 
 irresolution, and again the woman's emphatic, 
 
 " Come !" caused him to follow his guides mechan 
 ically. 
 
 Soon the storm burst over their heads, and raged with 
 a wild fury, such as he had never before witnessed. The 
 wind howled through the streets and alleys of the city, 
 with the roar of thunder ; while the deep reverberations 
 following every broad sheet of lightning that blazed through 
 the whole circle of the heavens, was as the roar of a 
 dissolving universe. Amid all this, the rain fell like a 
 deluge. But the rum-seller's guides paused not, and he 
 kept steadily onwards after them, shrinking now into the 
 shelter of the houses, and now breasting the fierce storm 
 with a momentary desperate resolution. 
 
 Through street after street, lined on either side with 
 wretched tenements that seemed tottering and just ready 
 to fall, and through alley after alley, where squalid misery 
 had hid itself from the eye of general observation, did 
 they pass, in what seemed to Mr. Graves an interminable 
 succession. At last the woman and her child paused at 
 the door of an old, wretched-looking frame house, that 
 appeared just ready to sink to the ground with decay. 
 
 " This is the place, sir. Come in ! Your victim would 
 see you before he dies," the woman said in a deep voice 
 that made a chill run through every nerve, at the same 
 time that she looked him sternly and with an expression 
 of malignant triumph in the face. 
 
 Unable to resist the impulse that drove him onward, 
 the rum-seller entered the house. 
 
 "See there, sir! Look! Behold the work of your own 
 hands !" exclaimed the woman with startling emphasis, as 
 he found himself in a room, with a few old rags in one 
 corner of it for a bed, upon which lay, in the last sad 
 agonies of dissolution, his old customer, Bill Riley, who, 
 he had been that day informed by his bar-keeper, had 
 joined the temperance society. 
 
 " There, sir"! See there !" she continued, grasping his
 
 230 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 arm, and dragging him up to where the miserable wretch 
 lay. " Look at him ! Bill Bill !" she continued, stooping 
 down, while she still held tightly the rum-seller's arm, and 
 shaking the dying man. " Bill Bill ! Here he is. You 
 said you wanted to see him ! Now curse him, Bill ! Curse 
 him with your dying breath !" And the woman's voice 
 rose to a wild shriek. 
 
 The wretch, thus rudely and suddenly called back from 
 the brink of death into a painful consciousness of exist 
 ence, half rose up, and stared wildly around him for a 
 moment or two. 
 
 " Here he is, Bill ! Here he is !" resumed his wife, again 
 shaking him violently. 
 
 "Who? Who?" inquired the dying man. 
 
 " Why, the rum-seller, who robbed you of your hard 
 earnings, that he might roll in wealth and feast daily on 
 luxuries, while your wife and children were starving ! 
 Here he is. Curse him now, with your dying breath ! 
 Curse him, I say, Bill Riley ! Curse him !" 
 
 "Who? Who?" eagerly asked the wretched being, a 
 thrill of new life seeming to flash through his exhausted 
 frame "Old Graves? Where is he?" 
 
 " Here he is, Bill ! Here he is ! Don't you see him ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I see him now !" And Riley fixed his eyes, 
 that seemed, to the rum-se'ler, to burn and flash like balls 
 of fire, sending off vivid scintillations, upon him with a 
 long and searching stare. 
 
 " Ah, yes," he continued, " this is old Graves, the rum- 
 seller, who has sent more men to hell, and more widows 
 and orphans to the poor-house, than any other man living. 
 How do you do, sir?" rising up still more in his bed, and 
 grasping the unwilling hand of the tavern-keeper, which 
 he clenched hard, and shook with superhuman strength. 
 "How are you, old fellow? I'm glad to see you once 
 more in this world. We shall have a jolly time in the 
 next, though, shan't we?" 
 
 A smile of malignant triumph flitted for a moment over 
 the livid face of Riley. Then its expression brightened 
 into one of intelligence. 
 
 "Look here, he said," and brought his lips close to the eat 
 of Graves. Then in a deep whisper, he breathed the words, 
 
 " Sub-Treasury !"
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 231 
 
 The rum-seller started, suddenly, and grew paler than 
 ever. 
 
 Instantly a loud, unearthly laugh rang through the room, 
 causing the blood to curdle about his heart. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought that chord could be touched ' 
 Ha ! ha! That was a capital idea, wasn't it, old fellow? 
 But you were too late for Bill Riley. You thought the 
 temperance men had him. But that was a little mis 
 take." 
 
 The sweat already stood in large drops on the pale face 
 of the tavern-keeper, and his limbs trembled like the 
 quivering aspen. 
 
 " Horrible !" he murmured, closing his eyes, to shut 
 out the scene. 
 
 " Not half so horrible as the place where I was, just 
 before you came in, Mr. Graves," said Riley in a calmer 
 voice. " And where do you think that was ?" 
 
 " In hell, I suppose," replied the rum-seller, with the 
 energy of desperation. 
 
 " Exactly," was the calm reply. " And what do you 
 think I heard and saw there ? Let me tell you. I was 
 dead for a little while, and found myself in strange 
 quarters, as you will say, when you get there. I always 
 thought devils had long tails, and cloven feet, horns, and 
 all that kind of thing. But that 's a vulgar error. They 
 are nothing but wicked men like you, who in this world 
 have taken delight in injuring others. You will make a 
 first-rate devil ! Ha ! ha ! I heard 'em say so, and wish 
 ing you were only there to help them work out their evil 
 intentions. 
 
 " There are a great many little hells there, all grouped 
 into one immense hell, like societies here, grouped into one 
 larger society or nation. And there, as here, every smaller 
 society is engaged in doing some particular thing, and 
 all are in one society who love to do that thing. As for 
 instance, all who, while here, have taken delight in theft, 
 are there associated together, and are all the while busy 
 in inventing reasons to put into the heads of thieves 
 here to justify them in stealing. Murderers, in like man 
 lier ; and so rum-sellers. They have a hell all filled with 
 rum-sellers there ! I was let into it for a little while to see 
 what was going on, and who do you think I saw there
 
 232 RUM -SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 Why, old Adams, that died about a month ago. The old 
 fellow was as lively as a cricket, and as busy as a bee. 
 
 " ' How is that prime old chap, Graves V he asked of 
 me, as soon as he found out I was there. 
 
 " ' I havn't seen him for a week,' I replied. I have 
 been sick for that time.' 
 
 "'But he's a rum 'un, though, ain't he?' chuckled 
 Adams. ' Many a scheme he and I have laid to get 
 money out of the grog-drinkers. But he was always 
 ahead of me. I used, in my early days, to feel a little 
 compunction when I saw a clever fellow going to ruin. 
 But it never affected him in the least. All was fish that 
 came into his net. I wish we had him with us. We 
 want just such scheming devils as he to help us devise 
 ways and means to circumvent these temperance men. 
 They '11 ruin us, if we don't look out. How were they 
 coming on when you left?' 
 
 " ' Carrying everything before them,' I said. ' The 
 rum-sellers are almost driven to their wit's ends for de 
 vices to get customers.' 
 
 "'Too bad! Too bad!' ejaculated old Adams. 'I'll 
 turn hell upside down, but what I '11 beat them out.' 
 
 " ' You '11 have to do your prettiest, then, let me tell 
 you, old fellow,' I rejoined, ' for the temperance cause is 
 going with a perfect rush. It is a mighty torrent whose 
 course, neither men nor devils can stay. It moves onward 
 with a power and majesty that astonishes the world, and 
 onward it will move, until your hell of rum-makers and 
 rum-sellers will not be able to find a single point through 
 which to flow into the world and tempt men with your 
 infernal devices !' 
 
 " O, if you had heard the horrid yell of malignancy 
 which arose, and echoed through the black chamber of 
 that region of wickedness and misery, it would have made 
 you shrink into nothingness with terror. They fairly 
 gnashed on me with their teeth in impotent rage. At 
 length old Adams got upon a whiskey-still they have 
 such things in hell the pattern was got from there when 
 introduced here, and made a speech to his associates. 
 From what he said, I found that he had minute informa 
 tion of all that was going on in this region. 
 
 " ' Old Graves,' he said ' our very best man, has
 
 DREAM. 233 
 
 already been so reduced in his business by this accursed 
 temperance movement, that he has recently thought seri 
 ously of giving up. This must not be. We cannot lose 
 him. No mind receives our suggestions more readily 
 than his. If he gives up, we lose a host. You all know, 
 that our influence on earth is powerless, unless we have 
 men to carry out our plans. If they will not listen to our 
 suggestion if they will not become our agents, we can 
 do nothing there. As spiritual existences, we cannot 
 affect that which is corporeal, except through the spiritual 
 united with the corporeal that is, through spiritual bodies 
 in material bodies. In other words, we can act on men's 
 minds, and they can do our works on earth for us. Now, 
 seeing that we can do nothing to stop this temperance 
 movement, except through the self-love of the rum-sellers 
 and rum-makers, it will never do to let old Graves fall. 
 We must help him to some new scheme by which to 
 bring back his diminished custom. Now what shall 
 it be?' 
 
 " Some device that will call attention to his bar-room, 
 is what is wanted/ remarked one. 
 
 " Yes, that is plain enough,' replied old Adams, who 
 seemed to be a kind of head devil there 4 but what shall 
 it be 1 That 's the question !' 
 
 " ' Suppose we put him up to getting a woman to walk 
 a plank,' suggested one. 
 
 " No. That has been tried already ; and if it is tried 
 again so soon, these temperance men will cry, humbug!' 
 
 " ' How would it do for him to get a pretty girl behind 
 his bar.' 
 
 " ' That might do. But then, his wife is a sort of 
 religious woman, and wouldn't let him do it.' 
 
 " Couldn't we induce him to poison her, and so get hei 
 out of the way?' 
 
 " No That 's out of the question. He kind of likes 
 the woman too well for that.' 
 
 " ' What, then, do you suggest ?' 
 
 " ' Some new drink will be the thing. Something that 
 will tickle the ear at the same time that it tickles the 
 palate. It will be a great thing, if, in this matter, we can 
 kill two birds with one stone. Bring back by some new
 
 234 
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 attraction the wavering ones, and turn the tide of custom 
 in the direction of our very particular friend Mr. Graves.' 
 " ' Have you thought of a name for it V 
 "'No.' 
 
 " How would Ambrosia do T suggested one. 
 " ' Not at all,' replied old Adams. ' It aint the thhg to 
 catch gulls now-a-days. And more than that, it isn't 
 omething new.' 
 
 What do you think of Harlequinade ?' 
 That might answer; but it's been used, already.' 
 Fiscal agent ?' 
 ' ' The same objection.' 
 
 Mummy ?' 
 1 ' The same.' 
 ' Cobbler V 
 'Good, but stale.' 
 ' Greaser ?' 
 ' ' No' And Adams shook his head emphatically. 
 
 Sam Weller?' 
 ' ' Been used already.' 
 
 Veto V 
 " ' That too.' 
 " < Hardware V 
 " ' Likewise.' 
 
 " What do you think of Elevator ?' 
 " That might do ; but still I can't exactly say that I 
 like it. It should be something to strike the popular 
 idea.' 
 
 " < Sub-Treasury, then ?' 
 
 " ' That 's it, exactly ! Sub-Treasury Sub-Treasury. 
 Let it be called Sub-Treasury ! And now, as I have more 
 power over Graves than any of you, let me have the 
 managing of him.' 
 
 And so saying, Adams seemed to go away, and remain, 
 for a day or two. When he came back, all the devils 
 gathered around him full of interest to hear of his suc 
 cess. They greeted him, first, with three wild, infernal 
 cheers, full of malignant pleasure, and then asked, 
 " ' What news ? What news from earth ?' 
 " ' Glorious !' was his response. And then another wild 
 yell of triumph went up. 
 
 "'I found Graves,' he went on, 'just the same pliant
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 235 
 
 tool that he has ever been.' He fell into my suggestions 
 at once, and on the very next day advertised his ' Sub- 
 Treasury.' It took like a charm. I could tell you of a 
 dozen young fellows just about being caught by the tee- 
 tootallers, who couldn't withstand the new temptation. 
 There was one in particular. His name is Joe Bancroft. 
 Only married about three years, and almost at the bottom 
 of the hill already. On the day before ' Sub-Treasury* 
 was announced, he came home sober, for the first time 
 in six months. His wife, a beautiful young girl when he 
 married her, but now a thin, pale, heart-broken creature, 
 sat near a window sewing when he entered. But she did 
 not look up. She heard him come in but she could not 
 turn her eyes towards him, for her heart always grew 
 sicker whenever she saw the sad changes that drink had 
 wrought upon him. 
 
 " For a few moments Joe stood gazing at his young 
 wife, with a tenderer interest than he had felt for a long 
 time. He saw that she did not look up, and was con 
 scious of the reason. 
 
 " ' Sarah,' he at last said, in a voice of affection, com 
 ing to her side. 
 
 " What do you want ?' she replied, still without look 
 ing up. 
 
 " ' Look up at me, Sarah,' he said, in a voice that 
 slightly trembled. 
 
 " Instantly her work dropped from her hands, and she 
 lifted her eyes to the face of her husband, and murmured 
 in a low, sad tone, 
 
 " 'What is it you wish, Joseph ?' 
 
 " * You look very pale, and very sorrowful, Sarah,' her 
 husband said, with increasing tenderness of tone and 
 manner. 
 
 " It had been so very long since he had spoken to her 
 kindly, or since he had appeared to take any interest in 
 her, that the first tenderly uttered word melted down her 
 heart, and she burst into tears, and leaning her head 
 against him, sobbed long and passionately. 
 
 " With many a kind word, and many a solemn promise 
 of reformation did the husband soothe the stricken heart 
 of his wife, into which a new hope was infused. 
 
 " I will be a changed man, after this, Sarah,' he said
 
 236 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 'And then it must go well with us. It seems as if I had 
 been, for the last year, the victim of insanity. I cannot 
 realize how it is possible for any one to abandon himself 
 as I have done, to the neglect of all the most sacred ties 
 and duties that can appertain to us. How deeply O, 
 how deeply you must have suffered !' 
 
 " ' Deeply, indeed, dear husband ! More than tongue 
 can utter,' the young wife replied, in a solemn tone. ' It 
 has seemed, sometimes, as if I must die. Day after day, 
 week after week, and month after month, to see you com 
 ing in and going out, as you have done, for ever intoxi 
 cated. To have no kind word or look. No rational 
 intercourse with one to whom I had yielded up my heart 
 so confidingly. O, my husband ! you know not how sad 
 a trial you have imposed upon your wife !' 
 
 " ' Sad sad, indeed, I am sure it has been, Sarah ! 
 But let us try and forget the past. There is bright sun 
 shine yet for us, and it will soon, I trust, fall warmly and 
 cheeringly on our pathway.' 
 
 " All that day Bancroft remained at home with his wife, 
 renewing his assurances of reformation, and laying his 
 plans for the future. I saw all this, and began to fear 
 lest Joe would really get freed from the toils we had, 
 through the rum-sellers, thrown around him toils, that I 
 had felt, sure would soon cause him to fall headlong 
 down amongst us. I, of course, suggested nothing to him 
 then ; for it would have been of little use. Towards 
 night, his wife proposed that he should sign the pledge. I 
 was at his ear in a moment 
 
 " ' That would be too degrading !' I whispered. ' You 
 have not got quite so low as that yet.' 
 
 " ' No, Sarah, I do not wish to sign the pledge,' he at 
 once replied. 
 
 "'Why not, dear? 
 
 " ' Because, I have always despised this way of binding 
 oneself down by a written contract, not to do a thing. 
 It is unmanly. My resolution is sufficient. If 1 say that 
 I will never drink another drop, why I won't. But if I 
 were to bind myself by a pledge not to touch liquor 
 again, I should never feel a moment's peace, until I had 
 broken it.' 
 
 " These objections I readily infused into his mind, and
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 237 
 
 he at once adopted them as his own. I had power to do 
 so, because I now perceived that his love of drink was so 
 strong, that he did not wish to cut off all chance of ever 
 tasting it again. He, therefore, wanted specious reasons 
 for not signing the pledge, and with these I promptly 
 furnished him ! 
 
 "It was in vain that his wife urged him, even with 
 tears and eager entreaties to take the pledge : I was too 
 much for her, and made him firm as a rock in his deter 
 mination not to sign. 
 
 " On the next morning, he parted with his wife, strong 
 in his resolution to be a reformed man. The pleasant 
 thrill of her parting kiss, the first he had received for 
 more than a year, lingered in his memory and encouraged 
 him to abide by his promise. He passed his accustomed 
 places of resort for liquor, on his way to business, but 
 without the first desire to enter. I noted all this, and 
 kept myself busy about him to detect a moment of weak 
 ness. Our friend Graves advertised his ' Sub-Treasury* 
 on that morning. I calculated largely on the novelty of 
 the idea to win him off. But, somehow or other, he did 
 not see it. Another young man, one of his companions, 
 did, however: 
 
 " ' Have you tried Graves' new drink, yet ?' he asked 
 of him about eleven o'clock, while he was under the 
 influence of a pretty strong thirst. 
 
 " ' No, what is it V he replied, with a feeling of lively 
 interest. 
 
 " Sub-Treasury,' replied his friend. 
 
 " ' Sub-Treasury ! That must be something new ! I 
 wonder what it can be V 
 
 " Into this feeling of interest in knowing what the new 
 drink could be, I infused a strong desire to taste it. 
 
 " ' Suppose we go and try some,' suggested his friend. 
 
 " * There '11 not be the least danger,' I whispered in his 
 ear. * You can try it, and refrain from drinking to ex 
 cess. The evil has been your drinking too much. There 
 is no harm in moderate drinking. This decided him, and 
 I retired. I knew, if he tasted, that he was gone.' 
 
 " Down he went to the Harmony House ; I was there 
 when he came in. It would have done your hearts good 
 to have seen with what delight he sipped the new bever-
 
 238 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 age, and to have heard him say, as I did, to Graves 
 ; I had half resolved to join the temperance society this 
 day, but your Sub-Treasury has entirely shaken my 
 resolution. I shall never be able to do it now in this 
 world, nor in the next either, if I can only get you in the 
 same place with me to make Sub-Treasury.' And then 
 he laughed with great glee. One, of course, did not 
 satisfy him, nor two, nor three. Before dinner-time he 
 was gloriously drunk, and went staggering home as usual. 
 I could not resist the inclination to see a little of the fun 
 when he presented himself to his wife, whose fond hopes 
 were all in the sky again. Like a bird, she had sung 
 about the house during the morning, her heart so elated 
 that she could not prevent an outward expression of the 
 delight she felt. As the hour drew near for her husband's 
 return, a slight fear would glance through her mind, 
 quickly dismissed, however ; for she could not entertain 
 the idea for a moment that his newly-formed resolution 
 could possibly be so soon broken. 
 
 " At last the hour for his accustomed return arrived. 
 She heard him open the door and sprung to meet him. 
 One look sufficed to break her heart. Statue-like she 
 stood for a moment or two, and then sunk senseless to 
 the floor. 
 
 " Other matters calling me away, I staid only to see 
 this delightful little scene, and then hurried back to the 
 Harmony House, to see if the run was kept up. Custo 
 mers came in a steady stream, and crowded the bar of 
 our worthy friend, whose heart was as light as a feather. 
 I saw at least half a dozen come in and sip a glass of 
 Sub-Treasury, who I knew had not tasted liquor for 
 months. I marked them; and shall be about their path 
 occasionally. But the best thing of all that I saw, was a 
 reformer break his pledge. He was, years ago, a noted 
 drunkard, but had been a reformed man for four years. 
 In that time he had broken up several grog-shops, by 
 reforming all their customers, and had got, I suppose, not 
 less than five or six hundred persons to sign the pledge. 
 J had, of course, a particular grudge against him. It was 
 an exceedingly warm day. and he was uncommonly 
 thirsty. He was reading the paper, and came across the 
 ' Sub-Treasurv' advertisement.
 
 DREAM. 239 
 
 u Ha ! ha ! What is this, I wonder?' he said, laughing; 
 some new trick of the enemy, I suppose.' 
 
 "'Look here, what is this Sub-Treasury stuff, that 
 Graves advertises this morning?' he said, to a young fel 
 low, a protege of mine, who was more than a match for 
 him. 
 
 " ' A kind of temperance beverage.' I put it into the 
 fellow's head to say. 
 
 " ' Temperance beverage ?' 
 
 " ' Yes. It 's made of lemonpeel, and one stuff or 
 other, mixed up with pounded ice. He 's got a tremen 
 dous run for it. I know half a dozen teetotallers who 
 get it regularly. I saw three or four there to-day, at one 
 time.' 
 
 " ' Indeed !' 
 
 " ' It 's a fact. Come, won't you go down and try a 
 glass ? It 's delightful.' 
 
 " ' Are you in earnest about it?' 
 
 " Certainly I am. It 's one of the most delicious drinks 
 that has been got up this season.' 
 
 " ' I don't like to be seen going into such a place.' 
 
 " ' O, as to that, there is a fine back entrance leading 
 in from another street, that no one suspects, and a private 
 bar into the bargain. We can go in and get a drink, and 
 nobody will ever see us.' 
 
 " ' Well, I don't care if I do,' said the temperance man, 
 ' for lam very dry.' 
 
 " ' You 're a gone gozzling, my old chap,' I said, as I 
 saw him moving off. ' I thought I 'd get you before long.' 
 Sure enough, the moment he took the first draught his 
 doom was sealed. His former desire for liquor came 
 back on him with irresistible power; and before night 
 fall, he was so drunk that he went staggering along the 
 street, to the chagrin and consternation of the teetotal 
 lers ; but to the infinite delight of your humble servant. 
 
 " And so saying, that malignant fiend, who, while he 
 inhabited a material body, was called old Billy Adams, 
 stepped down from the still. Then there arose three loud 
 and long cheers, for Graves, and his ' Sub-Treasury,' that 
 echoed and re-echoed wildly through that gloomy prison- 
 louse. 
 
 " You 're much thought of down there, you see," con-
 
 240 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 tinued Riley, with a cold grin of irony. " Adams says, 
 that if this temperance movement aint stopped soon, 
 they will have to get you among them, and make you 
 head devil in that department. How would you like that, 
 old chap, sa^ 1 How would you like to go now ?" 
 
 As Riley said this, he threw himself forward, and 
 clasped his thin, bony fingers around the neck of the rum- 
 seller, with a strong grip. 
 
 " How would you like to go now, ha 1" he screamed 
 fiercely in his ear, clenching his hand tighter and still 
 tighter, while his hot breath melted over the face of 
 Graves in a suffocating vapour. The struggles of the 
 rum-seller were vigorous and terrible but the dying man 
 held on with a superhuman strength. Soon everything 
 around grew confused, and though still distinctly con 
 scious, it was a consciousness in the mind of the tavern- 
 keeper of the agonies of death. This became so terrible 
 to him that he resolved on one last and more vigorous 
 ffort for life. It was made, and the hands of the dying 
 man broke loose. Instantly starting to his feet, the 
 wretched dealer in poison for both the bodies and souls 
 of men, found himself standing in the centre of his own 
 parlour, with the sweat rolling from his face in large 
 drops. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! And is it indeed a dream ?" he 
 ejaculated, panting with terror and exhaustion. 
 
 "A dream and yet not all a dream," he added, in a 
 few moments, in a sad, low tone. "In league with hell 
 against my fellow-men ! Can it indeed be true? But away! 
 away such thoughts !" 
 
 Such thoughts, however, could not be driven away. 
 They crowded upon his mind at every avenue, and press 
 ed inward to the exclusion of every other idea. 
 
 " But I am not in league with evil spirits to do harm to 
 my fellow-men. I do not wish evil to any one," he 
 argued. 
 
 " You are in such evil consociation," whispered a voice 
 within him. " There are but two great parties in the 
 world the evil and the good. No middle ground exists. 
 You are with one of these working for the good of 
 your fellow-men, or for their injury. One of these great 
 parties acts in concert with heaven, the other with hell
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 241 
 
 On the side of one stand arrayed good spirits on the 
 side of the other evil spirits. Can good spirits be orr your 
 side 1 Would they, for the sake of gain, take the food out 
 of the mouths of starving children? Would they put 
 allurements in a brother's way to entice him to ruin? No! 
 Only in such deeds can evil spirits take delight." 
 
 " Then I am on the side of hell ?" 
 
 "There are but two parties. You cannot be on the 
 side of heaven, and do evil to your neighbour." 
 
 " Dreadful thought ! In league with infernal spirits to 
 curse the human race ! Can it be possible 1 Am I really 
 in my senses ?' 
 
 For nearly half an hour did Graves pace the floor 
 backwards and forwards, his mind in a wild fever of ex 
 citement. In vain did he try, over and over again, to 
 argue the point against the clearest and strongest convic 
 tions of reason. Look at it as he would, it all resolved 
 itself into that one bold and startling position, that he was 
 in league with hell against his fellow-men. 
 
 " And now, what shall I do ?" was the question that 
 arose in his mind. v " Give up my establishment ?" 
 
 At that moment, Sandy, the bar-tender, opened the par 
 lour door, and said with a broad smile 
 
 " The Sub-Treasury is working wonders again ! I 'm 
 overrun, and want help." 
 
 " I can't come down, just now, Sandy. I 'm not very 
 well. You will have to get along the best you can," 
 Graves replied. 
 
 " I don't know what I shall do then, sir : I can't make 
 'em half as fast as they are called for." 
 
 " Let half of the people go away then," was the cold 
 reply. " I can't help you any more to-day." 
 
 Sandy thought, as he withdrew, that the " old man' 
 must have suddenly lost his senses. He was confirmed 
 in this idea before the next morning. 
 
 It was past twelve o'clock when the run of custom was 
 over, and Sandy closed up for the night. As soon as this 
 was done, Mr. Graves came in for the first time since 
 dinner. 
 
 " It 's been a glorious day for business," Sandy said, 
 rubbing his hands. " I 've taken in more than thirty
 
 242 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 dollars. Lucifer himself must have put the idea into your 
 head." 
 
 " No doubt he did," was the grave reply. 
 
 Sandy stared at this. 
 
 "Didn't you tell me that Bill Riley had joined the 
 temperance society ?" 
 
 " Yes, I did," replied the bar-keeper. 
 
 " Are you sure 1" 
 
 " I am sure, I was told so by one that knew." 
 
 " I only wish I was certain of it," was the reply, made 
 half abstractedly. And then the dealer leaned down upon 
 the bar and remained in deep thonght for a very long 
 time, to the still greater surprise of Sandy, who could not 
 comprehend what had come over his employer. 
 
 " Aint you well, Mr. Graves," he at length asked, break 
 ing in upon the rum-seller's painful reverie. 
 
 " Well !" he ejaculated, rousing up with a start. ' No, 
 I am not well." 
 
 " What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 "I'm sick," was the evasive response. 
 
 " How, sick ?" was Sandy's persevering inquiry. 
 
 " Sick at heart ! O, dear ! I wish I 'd been dead before 
 I opened a grog-shop !" And the countenance of Mr. 
 Graves changed its quiet, sad expression, to one of intense 
 agony. 
 
 Sandy looked at the tavern-keeper with an air of stupid 
 astonishment for some moments, unable to comprehend 
 his meaning. It was evident to his mind that Mr. Graves 
 had suddenly become crazed about something. This idea 
 produced a feeling of alarm, and he was about retiring 
 for counsel and assistance, when the tavern-keeper roused 
 himself and said: 
 
 " When did you see Bill Riley, Sandy ?" 
 
 " I saw him yesterday." 
 
 " Are you certain 1" in a quick, eager tone. 
 
 " O yes. I saw him going along on the other side of 
 the street with two or three fellows that didn't look no 
 how at all like rum-bruisers." 
 
 " I was afraid he was dead," Mr. Graves responded to 
 this, breathing more freely. 
 
 " Dead ! Why should you think that ?" inquired Sandy, 
 still more mistified.
 
 RDM-SELLER'S DREAM. 243 
 
 " I had reason for thinking so," was the evasive reply. 
 
 A pause of some moments ensued, when the bar-keeper 
 said 
 
 " I shall have to be stirring bright and early to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 < Why so ?" 
 
 "We're out of sugar and lemons both. That Sub- 
 Treasury runs on them 'ere articles strong." 
 ' " Confound the Sub-Treasury !" Mr. Graves ejaculated, 
 with a strong and bitter emphasis. 
 
 Sandy stood again mute with astonishment, staring into 
 the tavern-keeper's face. 
 
 " Sandy," Mr. Graves at length said in a calm, resolute 
 tone, " my mind is made up to quit selling liquor." 
 
 "Quit selling liquor, sir!" exclaimed Sandy, more 
 astonished than ever. "Quit selling liquor just at this 
 time, when you have made such a hit?" 
 
 " Yes, Sandy, I 'm going to quit it. 'I 'm afraid that we 
 rum-sellers are on the side of hell." 
 
 " I never once supposed that we were on the side of 
 heaven," the bar-keeper replied, half smiling. 
 
 " Then what side did you suppose we were on ?" 
 
 "O, as to that, I never gave the matter a thought. 
 Only, it never once entered my head that we could claim 
 much relationship with heaven. Heaven feeds the hungry 
 and clothes the naked. But we take away both food and 
 clothing, and give only drink. There is some little differ 
 ence in this, now one comes to think about it." 
 
 " Then I am right in my notion." 
 
 " I 'm rather afraid you are, sir. But that 's a strange 
 way of thinking." 
 
 " Aint it the true way V 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 " I am sure so, Sandy ! And that 's what makes me say 
 that I 'm done selling rum." 
 
 The tavern-keeper did not tell all that was in his mind. 
 He said nothing of his dream, nor of that horrible idea of 
 going to the rum-seller's hell, and becoming a devil, filled 
 with the delight of rendering mankind wretched by 
 deluging the land with drunkenness. 
 
 "What are you going to do then?" asked Sandy. 
 
 " Why, the first thing is to quit rum-selling." 
 30
 
 244 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 
 
 " But what then ?" 
 
 "I'm not decided yet; but shall enter into some kind 
 of business that I can follow with a clear conscience." 
 
 " You '11 sell out this stand, I suppose. The goodwill is 
 worth three or four hundred dollars." 
 
 " No, Sandy, I will not !" was the tavern-keeper's posi 
 tive, half indignant reply. "I'll have nothing more to do 
 with the gain of rum-selling. I have too much of that sin 
 on rny conscience already." 
 
 " Somebody will come right in, as soon as you move 
 out. And I don't see why you should give any one such 
 an advantage for nothing." 
 
 " I 'm not going to move out, Sandy." 
 
 " Then what are you going to do ?" 
 
 "Why, one thing I'm going to shut up this devil's 
 man-trap. And while I can keep possession of the pro 
 perty, it shall never be opened as a dram-shop again." 
 
 "What are you going to do with your liquors, Mr. 
 Graves? Sell 'em?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " What then ?" 
 
 " Burn 'em. Or let 'em run in the gutter." 
 
 " That I should call a piece of folly." 
 
 " You may call it what you please. But I '11 do it not 
 withstanding. I 've received my last dollar for rum. 
 Not another would I touch for all the world !" 
 
 A slight shudder passed through the tavern-keeper's 
 body, as he said this, occasioned by the vivid recollection 
 of some fearful passage in his late dream. 
 
 " You 'd better give the liquors to me, Mr. Graves. It 
 would be a downright sin to throw 'em in the gutter, when 
 a fellow might make a good living out of 'em." 
 
 " No, Sandy. Neither you nor anybody else shall ever 
 make a man drunk with the liquor now in this house. It 
 shall run in the gutter. That 's settled !" 
 
 When the sun arose next morning, Harmony House 
 was shorn of its attractions as a' drinking establishment. 
 All the signs, with their deceptive and alluring devices, 
 were taken down the shutters closed, and everything 
 indicating its late use removed, excepting a strong smell 
 of liquor, great quantities of which had been poured into 
 the gutters.
 
 RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 245 
 
 In the course of a few weeks, the house was again 
 re-opened as a hatter-shop, Mr. Graves having resumed 
 his former honest business, which he still follows, well 
 patronized by the temperance men, among whom are 
 Joseph Randolph, and William Riley, the former reclaim 
 ed through his active instrumentality.
 
 HOW TO CURE A TOPER. 
 
 [THE following story, literally true in its leading particu 
 lars, was told by a reformed man, who knew W very 
 
 well. In repeating it, I do so in the first person, in order 
 to give it more effect.] 
 
 I was enjoying my glass of flip, one night, at the little 
 okl " Black Horse" that used to stand a mile out of S. 
 
 , (I hadn't joined the great army of teetotallers then,) 
 
 when a neighboring farmer came in, whose moderation, at 
 least in whisky toddies, was not known unto all men. 
 
 His name was W . He was a quiet sort of a man 
 
 when sober, lively and chatty under the effect of a single 
 glass, argumentative and offensively dogmatic after the 
 second toddy, and downright insulting and quarrelsome 
 after getting beyond that number of drinks. We liked him 
 and disliked him on these accounts. 
 
 On the occasion referred too, he passed through all these 
 changes, and finally sunk off to sleep by the warm stove. 
 Being in the way, and also in danger of tumbling upon 
 the floor, some of us removed him to an old settee, where 
 he slept soundly, entertaining us with rather an unmusical 
 serenade. There were two or three mischievous fellows 
 about the place, and one of them suggested it would be capi 
 tal fun to black W 's face, and " make a darkey of him." 
 
 No sooner said than done. Some lamp-black and oil were 
 mixed together in an old tin cup, arid a coat of this paint 
 
 laid over the face of W , who, all unconscious of what 
 
 had been done, slept on as soundly and snored as loudly as 
 ever. Full two hours passed away before he awoke. 
 Staggering up to the bar, he called for another glass of whis 
 ky toddy, while we made the old bar-room ring again with 
 our peals of laughter. 
 
 " What are you all laughing at ?" he said, as he became 
 aware that he was the subject of merriment, and turning 
 his black face around upon the company as he spoke. 
 246
 
 HOW TO CURE A TOPER. 247 
 
 " Give us Zip Coon, old fellow !" called out one of the 
 " boys " who had helped him to his beautiful mask. 
 
 "No! no! Lucy Long! Give us Lucy Long!" cried 
 another. 
 
 " Can't you dance Jim Crow ? Try it. I'll sing the 
 1 wheel about and turn about, and do jist so. 1 Now 
 begin." 
 
 And the last speaker commenced singing Jim Crow. 
 
 W neither understood nor relished all this. But 
 
 the more angry and mystified he became, the louder laugh 
 ed the company and the freer became their jests. At last, 
 in a passion, he swore at us lustily, and leaving the bar 
 room, in high dudgeon, took his horse from the stable and 
 rode off. 
 
 It was past eleven o'clock. The night was cold, and a 
 
 ride of two miles made W sober enough to understand 
 
 that he had been rather drunk, and was still a good deal " in 
 for it ;" and that it wouldn't exactly do for his wife to see 
 him just as he was. So he rode a mile past his house, and 
 then back again, at a slow trot, concluding that by this 
 time the good woman was fast asleep. And so she was. 
 He entered the house, crept silently up stairs, and got 
 quietly into bed, without his better half being wiser there 
 for. 
 
 On the next morning, Mrs. W awoke first. But 
 
 what was her surprise and horror, upon rising up, to see, 
 instead of her lawful husband, what she thought a strap 
 ping negro, as black as charcoal, lying at her side. Her 
 first impulse was to scream ; but her presence of mind in 
 this trying position, enabled her to keep silence. You may 
 be sure that she didn't remain long in such a close contact 
 with Sir Darkey. Not she ! For, slipping out of bed 
 quickly, but noiselessly, she glided from the room, and was 
 soon down stairs in the kitchen, where a stout, two-fisted 
 Irish girl was at work preparing breakfast. 
 
 " Oh ! dear! Kitty!" she exclaimed, panting for breath, 
 and looking as pale as a ghost, " have you seen any thing 
 of Mr. W , this morning?" 
 
 " Och ! no. But what ails ye ? Ye're as white as a 
 shate ?" 
 
 "Oh! mercy! Kitty. You wouldn't believe it, but 
 there's a monstrous negro in my room !"
 
 248 HOW TO CURE A TOPER. 
 
 Gracious me ! Mrs. W , a nager ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, Kitty!" returned Mrs. W , trembling 
 
 in every limb. " And worse and worse, he's in my bed ! I 
 
 just 'woke up and thought it was Mr. W by my side. 
 
 But, when I looked over, I saw instead of his face, one as 
 black as the stove. Mercy on me ! I was frightened almost 
 to death." 
 
 " Is he aslape ?" asked Kitty. 
 
 "Yes, sound asleep and snoring. Oh! dear! What 
 
 shall we do ? Where in the world is Mr. W ? I'm 
 
 afraid this negro has murdered him." 
 
 " Och ! the blasted murtherin' thafe !" exclaimed Kitty, 
 her organ of combativeness, which was very large, becom 
 ing terribly excited. Get into mistress's bed, and the leddy 
 there herself, the omadhoun ! The black, murtherin' thafe 
 of a villain !" 
 
 And Kitty, thinking of no danger to herself, and making 
 no calculation of consequences, seized a stout hickory 
 clothes pole that stood in one corner of the kitchen, and 
 went up stairs like a whirlwind, banging the pole against 
 the door, balusters, or whatever came in its way. The 
 
 noise roused W. from his sleep, and he raised up in 
 
 bed just as Kitty entered the room. 
 
 " Oh! you murtherin' thafe of a villain!" shouted Kitty, 
 as she caught sight of his black face, pitching into him with 
 her pole, and sweeping off his night-cap, at the imminent 
 risk of taking his head with it. 
 
 " Hallo!" he cried, not at all liking this strange proceed 
 ing, " are you mad ?" 
 
 " Mad is it, ye thafe !" retorted Kitty, who did not recog 
 nize the voice, and taking a surer aim this time with her 
 pole, brought him a tremendous blow alongside of the 
 head, which knocked him senseless. 
 
 Mrs. W who was at the bottom of the stairs, heard 
 
 her husband's exclamation, and, knowing his voice, came 
 rushing up, and entered the room in time to see Kitty's for 
 midable weapon come with terrible force against his head. 
 Before the blow could be repeated, for Kitty, ejaculating 
 her " murtherin' thafe of a villain !" had lifted the pole 
 
 again, Mrs. W threw her arms around her neck, and 
 
 cried, " Don't, don't, Kitty, for mercy's sake !" It's Mr. 
 W , and you've killed him !"
 
 HOW TO CURE A TOPER. 251 
 
 " Mr. W indade !" retorted Kitty, indignantly, 
 
 struggling to free herself. " Is Mr. W a thafe of a 
 
 nager, ma'am?" 
 
 But even Kitty's eyes, as soon as they took the pains to 
 look more closely, saw that it was indeed all as the mistress 
 
 had said. W had fallen over on his face, and his 
 
 head and white neck were not to be mistaken. 
 
 The pole dropped from Kitty's hands, and, with the ex 
 clamation, " Och! murther!" she turned and shot from the 
 room, with as good a will as she had entered it. 
 
 The blow which W received was severe, breaking 
 
 through the flesh and bruising and lacerating his ear badly. 
 He recovered very soon, however, and, as he arose up, 
 caught sight of himself in a looking glass that hung oppo 
 site. We may be sure that it took all parties, in this ex 
 citing and almost tragical affair, some time to understand 
 
 exactly what was the matter. W 's recollection of the 
 
 loud merriment that had driven him from the " Black 
 Horse " on the previous night, when it revived, as it did 
 pretty soon, explained all to him, and set him to talking in 
 a most unchristian manner. 
 
 Poor Kitty was so frightened at what she had done that 
 she gathered up her "duds'' and fled instanter, and was 
 never again seen in that neighborhood. 
 
 As for W , he was cured of his nocturnal visits to 
 
 the " Black Horse," and his love of whisky toddy. 
 Some months afterwards he espoused the temperance cause, 
 and I've heard him tell the tale myself, many a time, and 
 laugh heartily at the figure he must have cut, when Kitty 
 commenced beating him for a " thafe of a nager."
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 " IT is two years, this very day, since I signed the 
 pledge," remarked Jonas Marshall, a reformed drinker, 
 to his wife, beside whom he sat one pleasant summer 
 evening, enjoying the coolness and quiet of that calm 
 hour. 
 
 "Two years! And is it, indeed, so long?" was the 
 reply. " How swiftly time passes, when the heart is not 
 oppressed with cape and sorrow !" 
 
 " To me, they have been the happiest of my life," re 
 sumed the husband. "How much do we owe to tnis 
 blessed reformation !" 
 
 " Blessed, indeed, may it be called !" the wife said, 
 with feeling. 
 
 " It seems scarcely possible, Jane, that one, who, like 
 me, had become such a slave to intoxication, could have 
 been reclaimed. I often think of myself, and wonder. 
 A little over two years ago, I could no more control the 
 intolerable desire for liquor that I felt, than I could fly. 
 Now I have not the least inclination to touch, taste, or 
 handle it." 
 
 " And I pray Heaven you may never again have !" 
 
 " That danger is past, Jane. Two years of total ab 
 stinence have completely changed the morbid craving once 
 felt for artificial stimulus, into a natural and healthy de 
 sire for natural and healthy aliments." 
 
 " It would be dangerous for you even now, Jonas, to 
 suffer a drop of liquor to pass your lips ; do you not 
 think so ?" 
 
 " There would be no particular danger in my tasting 
 liquor, I presume. The danger would be, as at first, in 
 the use of it, until an appetite was formed." Marshall 
 replied, in a tone of confidence. 
 
 " Then you think that old, inordinate craving for drink, 
 has been entirely eradicated ?" 
 252
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 253 
 
 " O yes, I am confident of it." 
 
 "And heartily glad am I to hear you say so. It 
 doubles the guarantee for our own and children's happiness. 
 The pledge to guard us on one side, and the total loss of 
 all desire on the other, is surely a safe protection. I feel, 
 that into the future I may now look, without a single 
 painful anxiety on this account." 
 
 " Yes, Jane. Into the future you may look with hope. 
 And as to the past, let it sink, with all its painful scenes, 
 its heart-aching trials, into oblivion." 
 
 Jonas Marshall and his young wife had, many years 
 before the period in which the above conversation took 
 place, entered upon the world with cheerfur hopes, and a 
 flattering promise of happiness. They were young per 
 sons of cultivated tastes, and had rather more of this 
 world's goods than ordinarily falls to the lot of those just 
 commencing life. A few years sufficed to dash all their 
 hopes to the ground, and to fill the heart of the young 
 wife with a sorrow that it seemed impossible for her to 
 bear. Marshall, from habitual drinking of intoxicating 
 liquors, found the taste for them fully confirmed before he 
 dreamed of danger, and he had not the strength of charac 
 ter at once and for ever to abandon their use. Gradually 
 he went down, down, slowly at first, but finally with a 
 rapid movement, until he found himself stripped of every 
 thing, and himself a confirmed drunkard. For nearly 
 two years longer, he surrendered himself up to drink 
 his wife and children suffering more than my pen can 
 describe, or any but the drunkard's wife and drunkard's 
 children realize. 
 
 Then came a new era. A friend of humanity sought 
 put the poor, degraded wretch, in his misery and obscurity, 
 and prevailed upon him to abandon his vile habits, and 
 pledge himself to total abstinence. Two years from the 
 day that pledge was signed, found him again rising in the 
 world, with health, peace, and comfort, the cheerful in 
 mates of his dwelling. Here is the brief outline of a 
 reformed drinker's history. How many an imagination 
 can fill in the dark shadows, and distinct, mournful features 
 of the gloomy picture ! 
 
 On the day succeeding the second anniversary of Jonas 
 Marshall's reformation, he was engaged to dine with a 
 31
 
 254 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 few friends, and met them at the appointed hour. With 
 the dessert, wine was introduced. Among the guests 
 were one or two persons with whom Marshall had but 
 recently become acquainted. They knew little or nothing 
 of his former life. One of them sat next to him at table, 
 and very naturally handed him the wine, with a request 
 to drink with him. 
 
 " Thank you," was the courteous, but firm reply. " 1 
 do not drink wine." 
 
 Another, who understood the reason of this refusal, 
 observing it, remarked 
 
 " Our friend Marshall belongs to the tee-totallers." 
 
 "Ah, indeed! Then we must, of course, excuse him," 
 was the gentlemanly response. 
 
 " Don't you think, Marshall, remarked another, " that 
 you temperance men are a little too rigid in your entire 
 proscription of wine ?" 
 
 " For the reformed drinker," was the reply, " it is 
 thought to be the safest way to cut off entirely every 
 thing that can, by possibility, inflame the appetite. Some 
 argue, that when that morbid craving, which the drunkard 
 acquires, is once formed, it never can be thoroughly 
 eradicated." 
 
 " Do you think the position a true one ?" asked a mem 
 ber of the party. 
 
 "I have my doubts of it," Marshall said. "For in 
 stance: Most of you know that for some years I indulged 
 to excess in drink. Two years ago I abandoned the use 
 of wine, brandy, and everything else of an intoxicating 
 nature. For a time, I felt the cravings of an intense de 
 sire for liquor ; but my pledge of total abstinence restrain 
 ed me from any indulgence. Gradually, the influence of 
 my old appetite subsided, until it ceased to be felt. And it 
 is now more than a year since I have experienced the 
 slightest inclination to touch a drop. Your wine and 
 brandy are now, gentlemen, no temptation to me." 
 
 " But if that be the case," urged a friend, " why need 
 you restrict yourself, so rigidly, from joining in a social 
 glass? Standing, as you evidently do, upon the ground 
 you occupied, before, by a too free indulgence, you pass 
 ed, unfortunately, the point of self-control : you may now
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 255 
 
 enjoy the good things of life without abusing them. Your 
 former painful experience will guard you in that respect." 
 
 " I am not free to do so," replied Marshall. 
 
 Why V 
 
 " Because I have pledged myself never again to drink 
 anything that can intoxicate, and confirmed that pledge 
 by my sign-manual thus giving it a double force and 
 importance." 
 
 " What end had you in view in making that pledge ?" 
 
 " The emancipation of myself from the horrible bond 
 age in which I had been held for years." 
 
 " That end is accomplished." 
 
 " True. But the obligations of my pledge are per 
 petual." 
 
 " That is a mere figure of speech. You fully believed, 
 I suppose, that perpetual total-abstinence was absolutely 
 necessary for your safety ?" 
 
 " I certainly did." 
 
 " You do not believe so now ?" 
 
 " No. I have seen reason, I think, to change my views 
 in that respect. The appetite which I believed would 
 remain throughout life, and need the force of a solemn 
 bond to restrain it, has, under the rigid discipline of two 
 years, been destroyed. I now feel myself as much above 
 the enslaving effects of intoxicating liquors, as I ever did 
 in my life." 
 
 " Then, it is clear to my mind, that all the obligations 
 of your pledge are fulfilled ; and that, as a matter of 
 course, it ceases to be binding." 
 
 " I should be very unwilling to violate that pledge." 
 
 " It would be, virtually, no violation." 
 
 " I cannot see it in that light," Marshall said, although 
 you may be perfectly correct. At any rate, I am not 
 now willing to act up to your interpretation of the mat 
 ter." 
 
 This declaration closed the argument, as his friends did 
 not feel any strong desire to see him drink, and argued 
 the matter with him as much for argument sake as any 
 thing else. In this they acted with but little true wisdom ; 
 for the particular form in which the subject was present 
 ed to the mind of Marshall, gave him something to think 
 about and reason about. And the more he thought and
 
 256 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 reasoned, the more did he become dissatisfied with the 
 restrictions under which he found himself placed. Not 
 having felt, for many months, the least desire for liquor, 
 he imagined that even the latent inclination which existed, 
 as he readily supposed, for some time, had become al 
 together extinguished. There existed, therefore, in his 
 estimation, now that he had begun to think over the mat 
 ter, no good reason why he should abstain, totally, from 
 wine, at least, on a social occasion. 
 
 The daily recurrence of such thoughts, soon began to 
 worry his mind, until the pledge, that had for two years 
 lain so lightly upon him, became a burden almost too 
 intolerable to be borne. 
 
 " Why didn't I bind myself for a limited period ?" he 
 at last said, aloud, thus giving a sanction and confirma 
 tion by word of the thoughts that had been gradually 
 forming themselves into a decision in his mind. No 
 sooner had he said this, than the whole subject assumed 
 a more distinct form, and a more imposing aspect in his 
 view. He now saw clearly, what had not before seemed 
 perfectly plain what had been till then encompassed by 
 doubts. He was satisfied that he had acted blindly when 
 he pledged himself to total-abstinence. 
 
 " Three hundred signed the pledge last night," said his 
 wife to him, a few weeks after the occurrence of the 
 dinner-party, just mentioned. 
 
 " Three hundred ! We are carrying everything before 
 us." 
 
 "Who can tell," resumed the wife, "the amount of 
 happiness involved in three hundred pledges to total-absti 
 nence ? There were, doubtless, many husbands and fathers 
 among the number who signed. Now, there is joy in 
 their dwellings. The fire, that long since went out, is 
 again kindled upon their hearths. How deeply do I sym 
 pathize with the heart-stricken wives, upon whom day 
 has again arisen, with a bright sun shining down from an 
 unclouded sky !" 
 
 " It is, truly, to them, a new era or the dawning of a 
 new existence. Most earnestly do 1 wish that the day 
 had arrived, which I am sure will come, when not a single 
 wife in the land will mourn over the wrong she suffers at 
 the hand of a drunken husband."
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 257 
 
 " To that aspiration, I can utter a most devout amen," 
 Mrs. Marshall rejoined, fervently. 
 
 "A few years of perseverance and well-directed energy, 
 on our part, will effect all this, I allow myself fondly to 
 hope, if we do not create a reaction by over-doing the 
 matter." 
 
 " How, overdoing it ?" asked the wife. 
 
 " There is a danger of over-doing it in many ways. 
 And I am by no means sure that the pledge of perpetual 
 abstinence is not an instance of this." 
 
 " The pledge of perpetual abstinence ! Why, husband, 
 what do you mean ?" 
 
 " My remark seems to occasion surprise. But I think 
 that I can make the truth of what I say apparent to your 
 mind. The use of the pledge, you will readily admit, is 
 to protect a man against the influence of a morbid thirst 
 for liquor, which his own resolution is not strong enough 
 to conquer." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " So soon, then, as this end is gained, the use of the 
 pledge ceases." 
 
 *' Is it ever gained ? Is a man who has once felt this 
 morbid thirst, ever safe from it ?" 
 
 " Most certainly do I believe that he is. Most certainly 
 do I believe that a few years of total abstinence from 
 everything that intoxicates, will place him on the precise 
 ground that he occupied before the first drop of liquor 
 passed his lips." 
 
 " I cannot believe this, Jonas. Whatever is once con 
 firmed by habit, it seems to me, must be so incorporated 
 into the mental and physical organization, as never to be 
 eradicated. Its effect is to change, in a degree, the whole 
 system, and to change it so thoroughly, as to give a bias 
 to all succeeding states of mind and body thus trans 
 mitting a tendency to come under the influence of that 
 bias." 
 
 " You advance a thing, Jane, which will not hold good 
 in practice. As, for instance, it is now two years since I 
 tasted a drop of wine, brandy, or anything else of a like 
 nature. If your theory were true, I should still feel a 
 latent desire, at times, to drink again. But this is not the 
 case. I have not the slightest inclination. The sight, or
 
 258 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 even the smell of wine, does not produce the old desire, 
 which it would inevitably do, if it were only quiescent 
 not extirpated as I am confident that it is." 
 
 "And this is the reason why you think the pledge should 
 not be perpetual ?" 
 
 " It is. Why should there be an external restraint im 
 posed upon a mere nonentity ? It is absurd !" 
 
 "Granting, for the sake of argument, the view you 
 take, in regard to the extirpation of the morbid desire, 
 which, however, I cannot see to be true," Mrs. Marshall 
 said, endeavouring to seem unconcerned, notwithstanding 
 the position assumed by her husband troubled her in 
 stinctively, " it seems to me, that there still exists a good 
 reason why the pledge should be perpetual." 
 
 " What is that, Jane?" 
 
 " If a man has once been led off by a love of drink, 
 when no previous habit had been formed, there exists, at 
 least, the same danger again, if liquor be used ; and if 
 it should possibly be true that the once formed desire, if 
 subdued, is latent not eradicated the danger is quad 
 rupled." 
 
 " I do not see the force of what you say," the husband 
 replied. " To me, it seems, that the very fact that he had 
 once fallen, and the remembrance of its sad consequences, 
 would be a sure protection against another lapse from 
 sobriety." 
 
 " It may all be so," Mrs. Marshall said, in a voice that 
 conveyed a slight evidence of the sudden shadow that 
 had fallen upon her heart. And then ensued a silence of 
 more than a minute. The wife then remarked in an 
 inquiring tone 
 
 " Then, if I understand you rightly, you think that the 
 pledge should be binding only for a limited time 1" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " How long ?" 
 
 " From one to two years. Two, at the farthest, would 
 be sufficient, I am fully convinced, to restore any man 
 to the healthy tone of mind and body that he once pos 
 sessed. And then, the recollection of the past would be 
 an all-sufficient protection for the future." 
 
 Seeing that the husband was confirming himself more 
 and more in the dangerous position that he had assumed,
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 259 
 
 Mrs. Marsnall said no more. Painfully conscious was 
 she, from a knowledge of his peculiar character, that, if 
 the idea now floating in his mind should become fixed by 
 a rational confirmation, it would lead to evil consequences. 
 From that moment, she began eagerly to cast about in 
 her mind for the means of setting him right, means that 
 should fully operate, without her apparent agency. But 
 one way presented itself, (argument, she was well aware, 
 as far as it was possible for her to enter into it with him, 
 would only set his mind the more earnestly in search of 
 reason, to prove the correctness of his assumed positions,) 
 and that was to induce him to attend more frequently 
 the temperance meetings, and listen to the addresses and 
 experiences there given. 
 
 " Come, dear," she said to him, after tea, a few even 
 ings subsequent to the time Marshall had begun to urge 
 his objections to the pledge. " I want you to go with me 
 
 to-night to this great temperance meeting. Mr. is 
 
 going to make an address, and I wish to hear him very 
 much." 
 
 " It will be so crowded, Jane, that you will not have 
 the least satisfaction," objected her husband "and, 
 besides, the evening is very warm." 
 
 " But I don't mind that, Jonas. I am very anxious to 
 hear Mr. speak." 
 
 " I am sorry, Jane," Marshall said, after the silence of 
 a few moments. " But I recollect, now, that I promised 
 Mr. Patton to call down and see him this evening. There 
 are to be a few friends there, and he wished me, particu 
 larly, to meet them." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Marshall's countenance fell at this, and the 
 tears gathered in her eyes. 
 
 " So, then, you won't go with me to the temperance 
 meeting," she said, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 " I should like to do so, Jane," was the prevaricating 
 reply, " but you see that it is out of my power, without 
 breaking my promise, which you would not, of course, 
 have me do." 
 
 " O, no, of course not." 
 
 " You can go, Jane. I will leave you at the door, and 
 call for you when the meeting is out." 
 
 " No, I do not feel like going, now I should have
 
 260 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 enjoyed it with you by my side. But to go alone would 
 mar all the pleasure." 
 
 " But surely that need not be, Jane. You know that I 
 cannot be always with you." 
 
 " No, of course not," was uttered, mechanically ; and 
 then followed a long silence. 
 
 " So you will not go," Marshall at length said. 
 
 " I should not enjoy the meeting, and therefore do not 
 wish to go," his wife replied. 
 
 " I am sorry for it, but cannot help it now, for I should 
 not feel right were I not to comply with my promise." 
 
 " I do not wish you to break it, of course. For a pro 
 mise should ever be kept sacred," Mrs. Marshall said, 
 with a strong emphasis on the latter sentence. 
 
 This emphasis did not escape the notice of her hus 
 band, who felt that it was meant, as it really was, to 
 apply to his state of mind in regard to the pledge. For 
 it was a fact, which the instinctive perception of his wife 
 had detected, that he had begun, seriously, to argue in 
 his own mind, the question, whether, under the circum 
 stances of the case, seeing, that, in taking the pledge, the 
 principle of protection was alone considered, he was any 
 longer bound by it. He did not, however, give expres 
 sion to the thoughts that he had at the time. The subject 
 of conversation was changed, and, in the course of half 
 an hour, he left to fulfil his engagement, which had not, 
 in reality, been a positive one. As he closed the door 
 after him, Mrs. Marshall experienced a degree of loneli 
 ness, and a gloomy depression of feeling, that she could 
 not fully account for, though she could not but acknowledge 
 that, for a portion of it, there existed too certain a cause, 
 in the strange and dangerous position her husband had 
 taken in regard to the pledge. 
 
 As Marshall emerged from his dwelling, and took his 
 way towards the friend's house, where he expected to 
 meet a select company, his mind did not feel perfectly at 
 ease. He had partly deceived his wife in reference to 
 the positive nature of the engagement, and had done so 
 in order to escape from an attendance on a temperance 
 meeting. This did not seem right. There was, also, a 
 consciousness in his mind that it would be extremely 
 hazardous to throw off the restraints of his pledge, at the
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 261 
 
 same time that a resolution was already half formed to 
 do so. The agitation of mind occasioned by this conflict 
 continued until he arrived at his friend's door, and then, 
 as he joined the pleasant company within, it all subsided. 
 
 " A hearty welcome, Marshall !" said the friend, grasp 
 ing his hand and shaking it warmly. " We were really 
 afraid that we should not have the pleasure of your good 
 society. But right glad am I, that, with your adherence 
 to temperance men and temperance principles, you do not 
 partake of the exclusive and unsocial character that so 
 many assume." 
 
 " I regard my friends with the same warm feelings 
 that I ever did," Marshall replied, "and love to meet 
 them as frequently." 
 
 " That is right. We are social beings, and should cul 
 tivate reciprocal good-feelings. But don't you think, 
 Marshall, that some of you temperance folks carry mat 
 ters too far 1" 
 
 " Certainly I do. As, for instance, I consider this bind 
 ing of a man to perpetual total-abstinence, as an unneces 
 sary infringement of individual liberty. As I look upon 
 it, the use of the pledge, is to enable a man, by the power 
 of an external restraint, to gain the mastery over an ap 
 petite that has mastered him. When that is accomplish 
 ed, all that is wanted is obtained: of what use is the 
 pledge after that 1" 
 
 " Very true," was the encouraging reply. 
 
 " A man," resumed Marshall, repeating the argument 
 he had used to his wife, which now seemed still more 
 conclusive, " has only to abstain for a year or two from 
 liquor to have the morbid craving for it which over-indul 
 gence had created, entirely eradicated. Then he stand* 
 upon safe ground, and may take a social glass, occasion 
 ally, with his friends, without the slightest danger. To 
 bind himself up, then, to perpetual abstinence, seems not 
 only useless, but a real infringement of individual liberty." 
 
 " So it present^ itself to my mind," rejoined one of the 
 company. 
 
 " I feel it to be so in my case," was the reply of the 
 reformed man to this, thus going on to invite temptation, 
 instead of fleeing from it. 
 
 "Certainly, if I were the individual concerned," re- 
 32
 
 262 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 marked one of the company, " I should not be long in 
 breaking away from such arbitrary restrictions." 
 
 " How would you get over the fact of having signed 
 the pledge?" asked Marshall, with an interest that he 
 dared not acknowledge to himself. 
 
 " Easy enough," was the reply. 
 
 How ?" 
 
 " On the plea that I was deceived into signing such a 
 pledge." 
 
 " How deceived ?" 
 
 " Into a belief that it was the only remedy in my case. 
 There is no moral law binding any man to a contract 
 entered into ignorantly. The fact of ignorance, in regard 
 to the fundamental principles of an agreement, vitiates it. 
 Is not that true ?" 
 
 " It certainly is," was the general reply to this question. 
 
 " Then you think," said Marshall, after reflecting for a 
 few moments, " that no moral responsibility would attach 
 to me, for instance, if I were to act independently of my 
 pledge ?" 
 
 "Certainly none could attach," was the general response ; 
 " provided, of course, that the end of that pledge was fully 
 attained." 
 
 " Of that there can be no doubt," was the assumption 
 of the reformed man. " The end was, to save me from 
 the influence of an appetite for drink, against which, in 
 my own strength, I could not contend. That end is now 
 accomplished. Two years of total abstinence has made 
 me a new man. I now occupy the same ground that I 
 occupied before I lost my self-control." 
 
 " Then I can see no reason why you should be denied 
 the social privilege of a glass with your friends," urged 
 one of the company. 
 
 " Nor can I see it clearly," Marshall said. " Still I 
 feel that a solemn pledge, made more solemn and binding 
 by the subscription of my name, is not a thing to be lightly 
 broken. The thought of doing so troubles me, when 1 
 seriously reflect upon it." 
 
 " It seems to me that, were I in your place," gravely 
 remarked one of the company, heretofore silent, "I would 
 not break my pledge without fully settling two points if
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 263 
 
 it is possible for you, or any other man, under like cir 
 cumstances, to settle them." 
 
 " What are they 1" asked Marshall, with interest. 
 
 " They are the two most prominent points in your case ; 
 two that have already been introduced here to-night. 
 One involves the question, whether you are really free 
 from the influence of your former habits ?" 
 
 " I have not a single doubt in regard to that point," 
 was the positive reply. 
 
 " I do not see, Mr. Marshall, how it is possible for you 
 to settle it beyond a doubt," urged the friend. " To me, 
 it is not philosophically true that the power of habit is 
 ever entirely destroyed. All subsequent states of body 
 or mind, I fully believe, are affected and modified by what 
 has gone before, and never lose the impression of preced 
 ing states, and more particularly of anything like an 
 overmastering habit or rather., I should say, in this 
 case, of an overmastering affection. The love, desire, or 
 affection, whichever you may choose to call it, which you 
 once felt for intoxicating drinks, or for the effects produced 
 by them, never could have existed in the degree that 
 they did, without leaving on your mind which is a some 
 thing far more real and substantial than this material 
 body, which never loses the marks and scars of former 
 abuse ineradicable impressions. The forms of old ha 
 bits, if this be true, and that it so, / fully believe, still re 
 main ; and these forms are in the endeavour, if I may so 
 speak, to be filled with the affections that once made them 
 living and active. Rigidly exclude everything that can 
 excite these, and you are safe ; but, to me it seems, that 
 no experiment can be so dangerous, as one which will 
 inevitably produce in these forms a vital activity." 
 
 " That, it seems to me," was the reply of one of the 
 company, " is a little too metaphysical or rather, I should 
 say, transcendental for, certainly, it transcends my 
 powers of reasoning to be able to see how any permanent 
 forms, as you call them, can be produced in the mind, as 
 in the body the one being material, and the other im 
 material, and, therefore, no more susceptible of lasting 
 impressions, than the air around us." 
 
 " You have not, I presume, given much thought to this 
 subject," the previous speaker said, " or you would not
 
 264 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 doubt, so fully, the truth of my remark. The power of 
 habit, a fact of common observance, which is nothing but 
 a fixed form of the mind, illustrates it. And, certainly, 
 if the mind retained impressions no better than the air 
 around us, we should remember but little of what we 
 learned in early years." 
 
 " I see," was the reply to this, " that my remark was 
 too broad. Still, the memory of a thing is very different 
 from a permanent and inordinate desire to do something 
 wrong, remaining as a latent principle in the mind, and 
 ready to spring into activity years afterwards, upon the 
 slightest provocation." 
 
 " It certainly is a different thing ; and if it be really so, 
 its establishment is a matter of vital importance. In re 
 gard to reformed drinkers, there has been much testimony 
 in proof of the position. I have heard several men relate 
 their experiences ; and all have said that time and again 
 had they resolved to conquer the habit that was leading 
 them on headlong to destruction ; and that they had, on 
 jnore than one occasion, abstained for months. But that, 
 so soon as they again put liquor to their lips, the old desire 
 came back for it, stronger and more uncontrollable than 
 before." 
 
 " That was, I presume," Marshall remarked, " because 
 they had not abstained long enough." 
 
 " One man, I remember to have heard say, that he did 
 not at one period of his life use any kind of intoxicating 
 drink for three years. He then ventured to take a glass 
 of cider, and was drunk and insensible before night ! And 
 what was worse, did not again rise superior to his degra 
 dation for years." 
 
 " I should call that an extreme case," urged the in 
 fatuated man. " There must have been with him a here 
 ditary propensity. His father was, doubtless, a drunkard 
 before him." 
 
 " As to that, I know nothing, and should not be willing 
 to assume the fact as a practical principle," the friend 
 replied. "But there is another point that ought to be 
 fully settled." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " No one can, without seriously injuring himself, moral 
 ly, violate a solemn pledge particularly, as you have
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 265 
 
 justly said, a pledge made more binding and solemn, by 
 act and deed, in the sign-manual. A man may verbally 
 pledge himself to do or not to do a thing. To violate 
 this pledge deliberately, involves moral consequences to 
 himself that are such as almost any one would shrink 
 from incurring. But when a man gives to any pledge or 
 contract a fulness and a confirmation by the act of sub 
 scribing his name to it, and then deliberately violates that 
 pledge or contract, he necessarily separates himself still 
 further from the saving power of good principles and in 
 fluences than in the other case, and comes more fully 
 under the power of evil principles and evil influences. 
 After such an act, that man's state is worse, far worse 
 than it was before. I speak strongly and earnestly on 
 this subject, because I feel deeply its importance. And I 
 would say to our friend Marshall here, as I would say to 
 my own brother, let these two points be fully settled before 
 you venture upon dangerous ground. Be sure that the 
 latent desire for stimulating drinks is fully eradicated 
 and be certain that your pledge can be set aside without 
 great moral injury to yourself, before you take the first 
 step towards its violation, which may be a step fraught 
 with the most fatal consequences to yourself and family." 
 
 This unlooked-for and serious turn which the discus 
 sion assumed, had the effect to make Marshall hesitate to 
 do what he had too hastily made his mind up that he 
 might venture Tipon without the slightest danger. It also 
 furnished reasons to the company why they should not 
 urge him to drink. The result was, that he escaped 
 through all the temptations of the evening, which would 
 have overcome him, inevitably, had his own inclination 
 found a general voice of encouragement. 
 
 But none of the strong arguments why he should not 
 again run madly into the way of evil, which had been so 
 opportunely and unexpectedly urged, had the effect to keep 
 his eye off of the decanters and brim-full glasses that cir 
 culated far too freely ; nor to prevent the sight of them 
 from exciting in his mind a strong, almost unconquerable 
 desire, to join with the rest. This very desire ought to 
 have warned him it should have caused him to tremble 
 and flee away as if a raging wild beast had stood in his 
 path. But it did not. He deceived himself by assuming
 
 266 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 hat the desire which he felt to drink with his friends 
 arose from his love of sociality, not of wine. 
 
 The evening was lonely and long to Mrs. Marshall, and 
 there was a shadow over her feelings that she endeavour 
 ed in vain to dispel. Her husband's knock, which came 
 between ten and eleven o'clock, and for which she had 
 been listening anxiously for at least an hour, made her 
 heart bound and tremble, producing a feeling of weakness 
 and oppression. As she opened the door for him, it was 
 with a vague fear. This was instantly dispelled by his 
 first affectionate word uttered in steady tones. He was 
 still himself! Still as he had been for the blessed two 
 years that had just gone by ! 
 
 "What is the matter, Jane? You look troubled," the 
 husband remarked, after he had seated himself, and ob 
 served his wife's appearance. 
 
 "Do I? If so, it is because I have felt troubled this 
 evening." 
 
 " Why were you troubled, Jane ?" 
 
 " That question I can hardly answer, either to your 
 satisfaction or my own," Mrs. Marshall said. " From 
 some cause or other, my feelings have been strangely 
 depressed this evening ; and I have experienced, besides, 
 a consciousness of coming misery, that has cast a shadow 
 over my spirits, even now but half dispelled." 
 
 " But why is all this, Jane ? There must be some 
 cause for such a change in your feelings." 
 
 " I know but one cause, dear husband !" Mrs. Marshall 
 said, in a voice of deep tenderness, laying her hand upon 
 her husband's arm as she spoke, and looking him in the 
 face with an expression of earnest affection. 
 
 " Speak out plainly, Jane. What is the cause?" 
 
 " Do not be offended, Jonas, when I tell you, that I 
 have not been so overcome by such gloomy feelings since 
 that happy day when you signed the pledge, as 1 havo 
 been this evening. The cause of these feelings lies in the 
 fact of your having become dissatisfied with that pledge. 
 I tremble, lest, in some unguarded moment, under the 
 assurance that old habits are conquered, you may be per 
 suaded to cast aside that impassable barrier, which has 
 protected your home and little ones for so long and happy 
 a time."
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 267 
 
 "You are weak and foolish, Jane," her husband said 
 .n a half-offended tone. 
 
 "In many things I know that I am," was Mrs. Mar 
 shall's reply " but not in this. A wife who loves her 
 husband and children as tenderly as I do mine, cannot 
 but tremble when fears are suddenly awakened that the 
 footsteps of a deadly enemy are approaching her peaceful 
 dwelling." 
 
 " Such an enemy is not drawing nigh to your dwelling, 
 Jane." 
 
 " Heaven grant that it may not be so !" was the solemn 
 ejaculation. 
 
 " To this, Marshall felt no inclination to reply. He 
 had already said enough in regard to his pledge to awaken 
 the fears of his wife, and to call forth from her expressions 
 of strong opposition to his views of the nature of his 
 obligation. His silence tended, in no degree, to quiet 
 her troubled feelings. 
 
 On the next morning, Marshall was thoughtful and si 
 lent. After breakfast, he went out to attend to business, 
 as usual. As he closed the door after him, his wife heaved 
 a deep sigh, lifted her eyes upwards, and prayed silently, 
 but fervently, that her husband might be kept from evil. 
 And well might she thus pray, for he needed support and 
 sustenance in the conflict that was going on in his bosom 
 a conflict far more vigorous than was dreamed of by 
 the wife. He had invited temptation, and now he was in 
 the midst of a struggle, that would end in a more perfect 
 emancipation of himself from the demon-vice that had 
 once ruled him with a rod of iron, or in his being cast 
 down to a lower depth of wretchedness and misery than 
 that out of which he had arisen. In this painful struggle 
 he stood not alone. Good spirits clustered around him, 
 anxiously interested in his fate, and endeavouring to sus 
 tain his faltering purposes ; and evil spirits were also 
 nigh, infusing into his mind reasons for the abandonment 
 of his useless pledge. It was a period in his history full 
 of painful interest. Heaven was moving forward to aid 
 and rescue him, and hell to claim another victim. But 
 neither the one nor the other could act upon him for good 
 or for evil, except through his own volition. It was for
 
 268 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 nim to turn himself to the one, and live, or to the other, 
 and die. 
 
 So intense was this struggle, that, after he had entered 
 nis place of business, he remained there for only a short 
 time, unable to fix his mind upon anything out of himself, 
 or to bid the tempest in his mind " be still." Going out 
 into the street, he turned his steps he knew not whither. 
 He had moved onwards but a few paces, when the 
 thought of home and his children came up in his mind, 
 accompanied by a strong desire to go back to his dwell 
 ing a feeling that required a strong effort to resist. The 
 moment he had effectually resisted it, and resolved not to 
 go home, his eye fell upon the tempting exposure of liquors 
 in a bar-room, near which he happened to be passing. 
 At the same instant, it seemed as if a strong hand were 
 upon him, urging him towards the open door. 
 
 " No no no !" he said, half aloud, hurrying forward, 
 " I am not prepared for that. And yet, what a fool I 
 am," he continued, "to suffer myself thus to be agitated! 
 Why not come to some decision, and end this uncertain, 
 painful state at once ? But what shall I do 1 How shall 
 I decide ? 
 
 " To keep your pledge " a voice, half audible, seemed 
 to say. 
 
 " And be for ever restless under it, for ever galled by 
 ts slavish chains," another voice urged, instantly. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " that is the consequence which makes 
 me hesitate. Fcol fool not to have taken a pledge for 
 a limited period! I was deceived tricked into an act 
 that my sober reason condemns ! And should I now be 
 held by that act? No ! no ! no ! The voice of reason 
 says no ! And I will not !" 
 
 As he said this, he turned about, and walked with a 
 firm, deliberate step, towards the bar-room he had passed 
 but a few moments before, entered it, called for a glass 
 of wine, and drank it off. 
 
 " Now I am a free man !" he said, as he turned away, 
 and proceeded towards his place of business, with an 
 erect bearing. 
 
 He had not gone far, however, before he felt . a strong 
 desire for another glass of wine, unaccompanied by any 
 thought or fear of danger. From the moment he ha
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 269 
 
 placed the forbidden draught to his lips, the struggle in 
 his mind had ceased, and a great calm succeeded to a 
 wild conflict of opposite principles and influences. He 
 felt happy, and doubly assured that he had taken a right 
 step. A second glass of wine succeeded the first, and 
 then a third, before he returned to his place of business. 
 These gave to the tone of his spirits a very perceptible 
 elevation, but threw over his mind a veil of confusion and 
 obscurity, of which, however, he was not conscious. An 
 hour only had passed after his return to business, before 
 he again went out, and seeking an obscure drinking-house, 
 where his entrance would not probably be observed, he 
 called for a glass of punch, and then retired into one of 
 the boxes, where it was handed to him. Its fragrance 
 and flavour, as he placed it to his lips, were delightful 
 so delightful, that it seemed to him a concentration of all 
 exquisite perceptions of the senses. 
 
 Another was soon called for, and then another and 
 another, each one stealing away more and more of dis 
 tinct consciousness, until at last he sunk forward on the 
 table before which he had seated himself, perfectly lost to 
 all consciousness of external things ! 
 
 Gladly would the writer draw a veil over all that fol 
 lowed that insane violation of a solemn pledge, sealed as 
 it had been by the hand-writing of confirmation. But he 
 cannot do it. The truth, and the whole truth needs to be 
 told, the beacon-light must be raisted on the gloomy 
 shores of destruction, as a warning to* the thoughtless or 
 careless navigator. 
 
 Sadder and more wretched was the heart of Mrs. 
 Marshall during the morning of that day, than it had been 
 on the evening before. There was an overwhelming 
 sense of impending danger in her mind, that she could 
 not dissipate by any mode of reasoning with herself. As 
 her children came about her, she would look upon them 
 with an emotion of yearning tenderness, while her eyes 
 grew dim with tears. And then she would look up, and 
 breathe a heart-felt prayer that He who tempereth the 
 winds to the shorn lamb, would regard her little ones. 
 
 The failure of her husband to return at the dinner hour, 
 filled her with trembling anxiety. Not once during two 
 vears had he been absent from home without her being 
 33
 
 270 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 perfectly aware of the cause. Its occurrence just at this 
 crisis was a confirmation of her vague fears, and made 
 her sick at heart. Slowly did the afternoon pass away, 
 and at last the hour came for his return in the evening. 
 But though she looked for his approaching form, and lis 
 tened for the well-known sound of his footsteps, he did 
 not come. 
 
 Anxiety and trembling uncertainty now gave way to 
 an overwhelming alarm. Hurriedly were her children 
 put to bed, and then she went out to seek for him, she 
 knew not whither. To the store in which he had become 
 a partner, she first turned her steps. It was closed as she 
 had feared. Pausing for a few moments to determine 
 where next to proceed, she concluded to go to the house 
 of his partner, and learn from him if he had been to the 
 store that day, and at what time. On her way to his 
 dwelling, she passed down a small street, in which were 
 several drinking-houses, hid away there to catch the 
 many who are not willing to be seen entering a tavern. 
 
 In approaching one of these, loud voices within, and 
 he sound of a scuffle, alarmed her. She was about 
 springing forward to run, when the door was suddenly 
 thrown open, and a man dashed out, who fell with a vio 
 lent concussion upon the pavement, close by her feet. 
 Something about his appearance, dark as it was, attracted 
 her eye. She stooped down, and laid her hand upon him. 
 It was her husband ! 
 
 A wild scream, that rung upon the air, a scream which 
 the poor heart-stricken creature could not have controll 
 ed if her life had been the forfeit brought instant assist 
 ance. Marshall was taken into a neighbouring house, 
 and a physician called, who, on making an examination, 
 said that a serious injury might, or might not have taken 
 place he could not tell. One thing, however, was cer 
 tain, the man was beastly drunk. 
 
 O, with what a chill did that last sentence fall upon the 
 ear of his wife ! It was the death-knell to all the fond 
 hopes she had cherished for two peaceful years. For a 
 moment she leaned her head against the wall near which 
 she was standing, and wished that she could die. But 
 thoughts of her children, and thoughts of duty roused 
 her.
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 271 
 
 A carnage was procured and her husband conveyed 
 home, and then, after he had been laid upon a bed, she 
 was left alone with him, and her own sad reflections. It 
 was, to her, a sleepless night but full of waking dreams, 
 whose images of fear made her heart tremble and shrink, 
 and long for the morning. 
 
 Morning at last came. How eagerly did the poor 
 wife bend over the still unconscious form of her husband, 
 reading each line of his features, as the pale light that 
 came in at the windows gave distinctness to every object ! 
 He still breathed heavily, and there was an expression of 
 pain on his countenance. A double cause for anxiety 
 and alarm, pressed upon the heart of Mrs. Marshall. 
 She knew not how serious an injury his fall might have 
 occasioned, nor how utter might be his abandonment of 
 himself, now that he had broken his solemn pledge. As 
 she bent over him in doubt, pain, and anxiety, he suddenly 
 awoke, and, without moving, looked her for a moment 
 steadily in the face, with a glance of earnest inquiry. 
 Then came a distinct recollection of his violated pledge ; 
 but all after that was only dimly seen, or involved in wild 
 confusion. His bodily sensations told him but too plainly 
 how deep had been his fall : and the intolerable desire, 
 that seemed as if it were consuming his very vitals, was 
 to him a sad evidence that he had fallen, never, he feared, 
 to rise again. All this passed through his mind in a mo 
 ment, and he closed his eyes, and turned his face away 
 from the earnest, and now tearful gaze of his wife. 
 
 " How do you feel, Jonas '?" Mrs. Marshall inquired, 
 tenderly, modifying her tones, so as not to permit them to 
 convey to his ear the exquisite pain that she felt. 
 
 But he made no reply. 
 
 " Say, dear, how do you feel ?" she urged, laying her 
 hand upon him, and pausing for an answer. 
 
 " As if I were in hell !" he shouted, springing suddenly 
 from the bed, and beginning to dress himself, hurriedly. 
 
 " O, husband, do not speak so !" Mrs. Marshall said, in 
 a soothing tone. " All may be well again. One sin need 
 not bring utter condemnation. Let this be the last, as it 
 has been the first, violation of your pledge. Let this 
 warn you against the removal of that salutary restraint, 
 which has been as a wall of fire aro.ind you for years."
 
 272 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 "Jane!" responded the irritated man, pausing, and 
 looking at his wife, fixedly, while there sat upon his face 
 an expression of terrible despair ; " that pledge can never 
 be renewed! It would be like binding a giant with a 
 spider's web. I am lost ! lost ! lost ! The eager, inex 
 pressible desire that now burns within me, cannot be con 
 trolled. The effort to do so would drive me mad. I 
 must drink, or die. And you, my poor wife ! and you, 
 my children ! what will become of you ? Who will give 
 you sufficient strength to bear your dreadful lot ?" 
 
 As he said this, his voice fell to a low and mournful, 
 despairing expression and he sunk into a chair, covering 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 " Dear husband !" urged his wife, coming to his side, 
 and drawing her arm around his neck, " do not thus give 
 way ! Let the love I have ever borne you, and which is 
 stronger and more tender at this moment than it has ever 
 been ; let the love you feel for your dear little ones, give 
 you strength to conquer. Be a man ! Nerve yourself, 
 and look upwards for strength, and you must conquer." 
 
 "No no no Jane!" the poor wretch murmured, 
 shaking his head, mournfully. "Do not deceive your 
 heart by false hopes, for they will all be in vain. I can 
 not look up. The heavens have become as brass to me. 
 I have forfeited all claim to success from above. As I 
 lifted the fatal glass to my lips, I heard a voice, whose 
 tones were as distinct as yours Let us go hence !' and 
 from that moment, I have been weak and unsustained in 
 the hands of my enemies. I am a doomed man !" 
 
 As he said this, a shrinking shudder passed through his 
 frame, and he groaned aloud. The silence that then 
 reigned through the chamber was as appalling as the 
 silence of death to the heart of Mrs. Marshall. It was 
 broken at length by her husband, who looked up with an 
 expression of tenderness in her face, as she still stood 
 with her hand upon him, and said 
 
 " Jane, my dear wife ! let me say to you now, while I 
 possess my full senses, which I know not that I ever shall 
 again, that you have been true and kind to me, and that 
 I have ever loved you with an earnest love. Bear with 
 me in my infirmity ; if, amid the grief, and wrong, and 
 suffering, which must fall upon you and your children.
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 273 
 
 you can bear with the miserable cause of all your 
 wretchedness. I shall not long remain, I feel, to be a 
 burden and a curse to you. My downward course will 
 be rapid, and its termination will soon come !" 
 
 A gush of tears followed this, and then came a stern 
 silence, that chilled the heart of Mrs. Marshall. She 
 longed to urge still further upon her husband to make an 
 effort to restrain the intense desire he felt, but could not. 
 There seemed to be a seal upon her lips. Slowly she 
 turned away to attend to her little ones, upon whom she 
 now looked with something of that hopelessness which 
 the widow feels, as she turns from the grave of her hus 
 band, and looks upon her fatherless children. 
 
 With a strong effort, Marshall remained in the house 
 until breakfast was on the table. But he could only sip 
 a little coffee, and soon arose, and lifted his hat to go out. 
 His wife was by his side, as he laid his hand on the door. 
 
 " Jonas," she said, while the tears sprang to her eyes, 
 " remember me remember your children !" She could 
 say no more ; sobs choked her utterance and she leaned 
 her head, weak and desponding, upon his shoulder. 
 
 Her husband made no reply, but gently placed her in 
 a chair, kissed her cheek, and then turned hastily away, 
 and left the house. 
 
 It was many minutes before Mrs. Marshall found 
 strength to rise, and then she staggered across the room, 
 like one who had been stunned by a blow. We will not 
 attempt the vain task of describing her feelings through 
 that terrible day ; of picturing the alternate states of 
 hope and deep despondency, that now made her heart 
 bound with a lighter emotion, and now caused it to sink 
 low, and almost pulseless, in her bosom. It passed away 
 at last, and brought the gloomy night-fall but not her 
 husband's return. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve 
 o'clock came, and went, and still he was absent. 
 
 For an hour she had been seated by the window, lis 
 tening for the sound of his approaching footsteps. As the 
 clock struck twelve, she started, listened for a moment 
 still more intently, and then arose with a deep sigh, her 
 manner indicating a state of irresolution. First she went 
 softly to the bed, and stood looking down for some mo 
 ments upon the faces of her little ones, sleeping calmly
 
 274 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 and sweetly, all unconscious of the anguish that swelled 
 their mother's heart almost to bursting. Then she raised 
 her head, and again assumed a listening attitude. An 
 involuntary sigh told that she had listened in vain. A 
 few moments after she was aroused from a state of deep 
 abstraction of thought, by a strong shudder passing 
 through her frame, occasioned by some fearful picture 
 which her excited imagination had conjured up. She 
 now went hastily to a wardrobe, and took out her bonnet 
 and shawl. One more glance at her children, told her 
 that they were sleeping soundly. In the next minute she 
 was in the street, bending her steps she knew not whither, 
 in search of her husband. 
 
 Almost involuntarily, Mrs. Marshall took her way 
 towards that portion of the city where she had, on the 
 night previous, unexpectedly found him. It was not long 
 before she paused by the door at the same drinking-house 
 from which her husband had been thrust, when he fell, 
 almost lifeless, at her feet. Although it was past twelve 
 o'clock, the sound of many voices came from within, 
 mingled with wild excitement, and boisterous mirth. 
 
 Now came a severe trial for her shrinking, sensitive 
 feelings. How could she, a woman, and alone, enter such 
 a place, at such an hour, on such an errand ? The thought 
 caused a sensation of faintness to pass over her, and she 
 leaned for a moment against the side of the door to keep 
 from falling. But affection and thoughts of duty quickly 
 aroused her, and resolutely keeping down every weak 
 ness, she placed her hand upon the door, which yielded 
 readily to even her light hand, and in the next moment 
 found herself in the presence of about a dozen men, all 
 more or less intoxicated. Their loud, insane mirth was 
 instantly checked by her entrance. They were all men 
 who were in the habit of mingling daily in good society, 
 and more than one of them knew Marshall, and instantly 
 recognised his wife. No rudeness was, of course, offered 
 her. On the contrary, two or three came forward, and 
 kindly inquired, though they guessed too well, her errand 
 there at such an hour. 
 
 " Has my husband been here to-night, Mr. ?" she 
 
 asked, in a choking voice, of one whose countenance she 
 instantly recognised.
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 275 
 
 ' I have not met with him, Mrs. Marshall," was the 
 reply, in a kind, sympathizing tone, " but I will inquire if 
 any one here has seen him." 
 
 These inquiries were made, and then Mr. came 
 
 forward again, and said, in a low tone, 
 
 " Come with me, Mrs. Marshall." 
 
 As the two emerged into the street, Mr said, 
 
 " I would not, if I were you, madam, attempt to look 
 further for your husband. I have just learned that he is 
 safe and well, only a little overcome, by having, acci 
 dentally, I have no doubt, drunken a little too freely. In 
 the morning he will come home, and all will, I trust, be 
 right again." 
 
 " What you say, I know, is meant in kindness, Mr. ," 
 
 Mrs. Marshall replied, in a firmer tone, the assurance that 
 her husband was at least safe from external danger, being 
 some relief to her, " but I would rather see my husband, 
 and have him taken home. Home is the best place for 
 him, under any circumstances and I am the most fitting 
 one to attend to him. Will you, then, do me the favour 
 to procure a hack, and go with me to the place where 
 he is to be found?" 
 
 Mr. saw that in the manner and tone of Mrs. 
 
 Marshall which made him at once resolve to do as she 
 wished him. The hack was procured, into which both 
 entered. Directions were given, in a low tone, to the 
 driver, and then they rattled away over the resounding 
 pavement, for a space of time that seemed very long to 
 the anxious wife. At last the hack stopped, the door 
 was opened, and the steps thrown down. When Mrs. 
 Marshall descended, she found herself in a narrow, dark 
 street, before a low, dirty-looking tavern, the windows 
 and doors of which had been closed for the night. 
 
 While Mr. was knocking loudly for admission, 
 
 her eyes, growing familiar with the darkness, saw some 
 thing lying partly upon the street arid partly upon the 
 pavement a few yards from her, that grew more and 
 more distinct, the more intently she looked at it. Ad 
 vancing a few steps, she saw that it was the body of a 
 man, a few paces further, revealed to her eyes the form 
 of her husband. An exclamation of surprise and alarm 
 brought both Mr. and the hack-driver to her side.
 
 276 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 In attempting to raise Marshall to his feet, he groaned 
 neavily, and writhed with a sensation of pain. Some 
 thing dark upon the pavement attracted the eye of his 
 wife. She touched it with her hand, to which it adhered, 
 with a moist, oily feeling. Hurrying to the lamp in front 
 of the hack, with a feeling of sudden alarm, she lifted her 
 hand so that the light could fall upon it. It was covered 
 with blood ! 
 
 With a strong effort, she kept down the sudden impulse 
 that she felt to utter a wild scream, and went back to 
 
 Mr. and communicated to him the alarming fact she 
 
 had discovered. Marshall was at once laid gently down 
 upon the pavement, and a light procured, which showed 
 that his pantaloons, above, below, and around the knees, 
 were saturated with blood. 
 
 " O, Mr. ! what can be the matter ?" Mrs. Mar 
 shall said, in husky tones, looking up, with a face blanch 
 ed to an ashy paleness. 
 
 " Some passing vehicle has, no doubt, run over him 
 but I trust that he is not much hurt. Remain here with 
 him, until I can procure assistance, and have him taken 
 home." 
 
 " O, sir, go quickly !" the poor wife replied, in earnest 
 tones. 
 
 In a short time, four men, with a litter, were procured, 
 upon which Marshall, now groaning, as if acutely con 
 scious of pain, was placed, and slowly conveyed home. 
 A surgeon reached the house as soon as the party accom 
 panying the injured man. An examination showed that 
 his legs had been broken just above the knees. And one 
 of them had the flesh dreadfully torn and bruised, and 
 both were crushed as if run over by some heavy vehicle. 
 A still further examination showed the fracture to be 
 compound, and extensive ; but, fortunately, the knee joint 
 had entirely escaped. Already the limbs had swollen 
 very considerably, exhibiting a rapidly increasing inflam 
 mation. This was a natural result flowing from the large 
 quantity of alcohol which he had evidently been taking 
 through the day and evening. 
 
 Fortunately, notwithstanding the morbid condition of 
 his body, and the nature and extent of the injury he had 
 sustained, the vital system of Marshall, unexhausted by a
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 277 
 
 long-continued series of physical abuse from drinking, 
 rallied strongly against the violent inflammation that fol 
 lowed the setting of the bones, and dressing of the wounds, 
 and threw off the too apparent tendency to mortification 
 that continued, much to the anxiety of the surgeon, for 
 many days. During this time, he suffered almost inces 
 sant pain frequently of an excruciating character. The 
 severity of this pain entirely destroyed all desire for in 
 toxicating drink. This desire, however, gradually began 
 to return, as the pain, which accompanied the knitting of 
 the bones, subsided. But he did not venture to ask for it, 
 *and, of course, it was not offered to him. 
 
 With the most earnest attentions, and the tenderest 
 solicitude, did Mrs. Marshall wait and watch by the bed 
 side of her husband, both day and night, wearing down 
 her own strength, and neglecting her children. 
 
 At the end of three weeks, he had so far recovered, as 
 to be able to sit up, and to bear a portion of his weight. 
 As fear for the consequences of the injury her husband 
 had received, began to fade from the mind of Mrs. Mar 
 shall, another fear took possession of it a heart-sicken 
 ing fear, under which her spirit grew faint. There was 
 no pledge to bind him, and his newly-awakened desire for 
 liquor, she felt sure would bear him away inevitably, not 
 withstanding the dreadful lesson he had received. 
 
 About this time, however, two or three of his temper 
 ance friends, who had heard of his fall, came to see him. 
 This encouraged her, especially as they soon began to 
 urge him again to sign the pledge ; but he would not 
 consent. 
 
 " It is useless," was his steady reply, to all importuni 
 ties, and made usually, in a mournful tone, " for me to 
 sign another pledge. Having broken one, wilfully and 
 deliberately, I have no power to keep another. I am 
 conscious of this and, therefore, am resolved not to stain 
 my soul with another sin." 
 
 " But you can keep it. I am sure you can," one friend, 
 more importunate than the rest, would repeatedly urge 
 "You broke your first pledge, deliberately, because you 
 believed that you were freed from the old desire, even in 
 a latent form. Satisfied, from painful experience, that this 
 34
 
 278 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 is not the case, you will not again try so dangerous an 
 experiment." 
 
 But Marshall would shake his head, sadly, in rejection 
 of all arguments and persuasions. 
 
 " It may all seem easy enough for you," he would some 
 times say, " who have never broken a solemn pledge ; but 
 you know not how utter a destruction of internal moral 
 power such an act, deliberately done, effects. I am 
 not the man I was, before I so wickedly violated that 
 solemn compact made between myself and heaven for 
 so I now look upon it. While I kept my pledge, I had 
 the sustaining power of heaven to bear me safely up 
 against all temptations; but since the very moment it 
 . was broken, I have had nothing but my own strength to 
 lean upon, and that has proved to be no better than a 
 broken reed, piercing me through with many sorrows." 
 
 To such declarations, in answer to arguments, and 
 sometimes earnest entreaties made by his friends to in 
 duce him to renew his pledge, Mrs. Marshall would listen 
 in silence, but with a sinking, sickening sensation of mind 
 and body. All and more than she could say, was said to 
 him, but he resisted every appeal and what good could 
 her weak persuasions and feeble admonitions do ? 
 
 Day after day passed on, and Marshall gradually gain 
 ed more use of his limbs. In six weeks, he could walk 
 without the aid of his crutches. 
 
 " I think I must try and get down to the store to-mor 
 row," he said, to his wife, about this time. " This is a 
 busy season, and I can be of some use there for two or 
 three hours, every day." 
 
 " I don't think I would venture out yet," Mrs. Marshall 
 said, looking at him, with an anxious, troubled expression 
 of countenance, that she tried in vain to conceal. 
 
 " Why not, Jane ?" 
 
 " I don't think you are strong enough, dear." 
 
 " O, yes, I am. And, besides, it will do me good to go 
 out and take the fresh air. You know that it is now six 
 weeks since I have been outside of the front door." 
 
 " I know it has. But " 
 
 " But what, Jane ?" 
 
 " You know what I would say, Jonas. You know the 
 terrible fear that rests upon my heart like a night-mare."
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 279 
 
 And Mrs. Marshall covered her face with her hands, 
 and gave way to tears. 
 
 A long silence followed this. At length Marshall 
 said, 
 
 " I hope, Jane, that I shall be able to restrain myself. 
 I am, at least, resolved to try." 
 
 " O, husband, if you will only try !" Mrs. Marshall 
 ejaculated eagerly, lifting her tearful eyes, and looking 
 him with an appealing expression in the face " If you 
 will only try !" 
 
 " I will try, Jane. But do not feel too much confidence 
 in my effort. I am weak so weak that I tremble when 
 I think of it and remember what an almost irresistible 
 influence I have to contend with." 
 
 "Why not take the pledge, again, Jonas?" said his 
 wife, for the first time she had urged that recourse upon 
 him. 
 
 " You have heard my reasons given for that, over and 
 over again." 
 
 " I know I have. But they never satisfied me." 
 
 " You would not have me add the sin of a double vio 
 lation of a solemn pledge to my already overburdened 
 conscience ?" 
 
 " No, Jonas. Heaven forbid !" 
 
 " The fear of that restrains me. I dare not again 
 take it." 
 
 " Do you not deeply repent of your first violation ?" the 
 wife asked, after a few moments of earnest thought. 
 
 "Heaven knows how deeply." 
 
 " And Heaven, that perceives and knows the depth and 
 sincerity of that repentance, accepts it according to its 
 quality. And just so far as Heaven accepts the sincere 
 offering of a repentant heart, conscious of its own weak 
 ness, and mourning over its derelictions, is strength given 
 for combat in future temptations. The bruised reed he 
 will not break, nor quench the smoking flax. Hope, then, 
 dear husband ! you are not cast off you are not reject 
 ed by Heaven." 
 
 " O, Jane, if I could feel the truth of what you say, 
 how happy I should be! For the idea of sinking again 
 into that hopeless, abandoned, wretched condition, out of 
 which this severe affliction has lifted me, as by the hair
 
 280 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 
 
 of the head, is appalling !" was the reply, to his wife's 
 earnest appeal. 
 
 " Trust me, dear husband, there is truth in what I 
 say. He who came down to man's lowest, and almost 
 lost condition, that he might raise him up, and sustain him 
 against the assaults of his worst enemies, has felt in his 
 own body all the temptations that ever can assail his chil 
 dren, and not only felt them, but successfully resisted and 
 conquered them ; so that, there is no state, however low, 
 in which there is an earnest desire to rise out of evil, to 
 which he does not again come down, and in which he 
 does not again successfully contend with the powers of 
 darkness. Look to Him, then, again, in a fixed resolution 
 to put away the evils into which you have fallen, and you 
 must, you will be sustained !" 
 
 " O, if I could but believe this, how eagerly would I 
 again fly to the pledge !" Marshall said, in an earnest 
 voice. 
 
 " Fly to it then, Jonas, as to a city of refuge ; for it is 
 true. You have felt the power of the pledge once try it 
 again. It will be strength to you in your weakness, as it 
 has been before." 
 
 Still Marshall hesitated. While he did so, his wife 
 brought him pens, ink and paper. 
 
 " Write a pledge and sign it, dear husband !" she urged, 
 as she placed them before him. " Think of me of the 
 joy that it will bring to my heart and sign."^ 
 
 " I am afraid, Jane." 
 
 " Can you stand alone ?" 
 
 " I fear not." 
 
 " Are you not sure, that the pledge will restrain you 
 some ?" 
 
 " O, yes. If I ever take it again, I shall tremble under 
 the fearful responsibility that rests upon me." 
 
 " Corne with me, a moment," Mrs. Marshall said, after 
 a thoughtful pause. 
 
 Her husband followed, as she led the way to an adjoin 
 ing room, where two or three bright-eyed children were 
 playing in the happiest mood. 
 
 " For their sakes, if not for mine, Jonas, sign the pledge 
 again," she said, while her voice trembled, and then became 
 choked, as she leaned her head upon his shoulder.
 
 THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 281 
 
 ' You have conquered ! I will sign !" he whispered in 
 her ear. 
 
 Eagerly she lifted her head, and looked into his face 
 with a glance of wild delight. 
 
 " O, how happy this poor heart will again be !" she 
 ejaculated, clasping her hands together, and looking up 
 wards with a joyous smile. 
 
 In a few minutes, a pledge of total abstinence from all 
 kinds of intoxicating drinks, was written out and signed. 
 While her husband was engaged in doing this, Mrs. Mar 
 shall stood looking down upon each letter as it was formed 
 by his pen, eager to see his name subscribed. When that 
 was finally done, she leaned forward on the table at which 
 he wrote, swayed to and fro for a moment or two, and 
 then sank down upon the floor, lost to all consciousness 
 of external things. 
 
 From that hour to this, Jonas Marshall has been as true 
 to his second pledge, even in thought, as the needle to the 
 pole. So dreadful seems the idea of its violation, that the 
 bare recollection of his former dereliction, makes him 
 tremble. 
 
 " It was a severe remedy," he says, sometimes, in 
 regard to his broken legs ; " and proved eminently suc 
 cessful. But for that, I should have been utterly lost."
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING STORY. 
 
 A MAN, who at first sight, a casual observer would have 
 thought at least forty or fifty years of age, came creeping 
 out of an old, miserable-looking tenement in the lower part 
 of Cincinnati, a little while after night-fall, and, with bent 
 body and shuffling gait, crossed the street an angle ; and, 
 after pausing for a few moments before a mean frame build 
 ing, in the windows of which decanters of liquor were 
 temptingly displayed, pushed open the door and entered. 
 
 It was early in November. Already the leaves had 
 fallen, and there was, in the aspect of nature, a desolate- 
 ness that mirrored itself in the feelings. Night had come, 
 hiding all this, yet by no means obliterating the impression 
 which had been made, but measurably increasing it ; for, 
 with the darkness had begun to fall a misty rain, and the 
 rising wrnd moaned sadly among the eaves. 
 
 A short time after sundown the man, to whom we have 
 just referred, came home to the comfortless-looking house 
 we have seen him leaving. All day he had turned a wheel 
 in a small manufactory ; and when his work was done, he 
 left, what to him was a prison-house, and retired to the 
 cheap but wretched boarding-place he had chosen, where 
 were congregated about a dozen men of the lowest class. 
 He did not feel happy. That was impossible. No one 
 who debases himself by intemperance can be happy ; and 
 this man had gone down, step by step, until he attained a 
 depth of degradation most sad to contemplate. And yet he 
 was not thirty years old ! After supper he went out, as 
 usual, to spend the evening in drinking. 
 
 The man, fallen as he was, and lost to all the higher and 
 
 nobler sentiments of the heart, had experienced during the 
 
 day a pressure upon his feelings heavier than usual, that 
 
 had its origin in some reviving memories of earlier times. 
 
 282
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 283 
 
 The sound of his mother's voice had been in his ears fre 
 quently through the day ; and images of persons, places, 
 and scenes, the remembrance of which brought no joy to 
 his heart, had many times come up before him. At the 
 supper-table, amid his coarse, vulgar-minded companions, 
 his laugh was not heard as usual ; and, when spoken to, 
 he answered briefly and in monosyllables. 
 
 The tippling-house to which the man went to spend his 
 day's earnings and debase himself with drink, was one of 
 the lowest haunts of vice in the city. Gambling with cards, 
 dominoes, and dice, occupied the time of the greater number 
 who made it a place of resort, and little was heard there 
 except language the most obscene and profane. ' For his 
 daily task at the wheel, the man was paid seventy-five 
 cents a day. His boarding and lodging cost him thirty-one 
 and a quarter cents, and this had to be paid every night 
 under penalty of being expelled from the house. He was a 
 degraded drunkard, and not therefore worthy of confidence 
 nor credit beyond a single day, and he received none. What 
 remained of the pittance earned, was invariably spent in 
 drink, or gambled away before he retired from the grog 
 shop for the night ; when, staggering home, he groped his 
 way to his room, too helpless to remove his clothes, and 
 threw himself upon a straw pallet, that could scarcely be 
 dignified with the name of bed. This in outline, was 
 the daily history of the man's life ; and daily the shadows 
 of vice fell more and more darkly upon his path. 
 
 The drinking-house had two rooms on the first floor. In 
 front was a narrow counter, six or eight feet in length, and 
 behind this stood a short, bloated, vice-disfigured image of 
 humanity, ready to supply the wants of customers. Two 
 or three roughly-made pine tables, and some chairs, stood 
 around the room. The back apartment contained simply 
 chairs and tables, and was generally occupied by parties 
 engaged in games of chance, for small sums. Tobacco- 
 smoke, the fumes of liquor, and the polluted breaths of the 
 inmates, made the atmosphere of these rooms so offensive, 
 that none but those who had become accustomed to inhale 
 it, could have endured to remain there for a minute. 
 
 The man, on entering this den of vice, went to the 
 counter and called for whisky. A decanter was set before 
 him, and from this he poured into a glass nearly a gill of
 
 284 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 the vilest kind of stuffand drank it off, undiluted. About half 
 the quantity of water was sent down after the burning fluid, 
 to partially subdue its ardent qualities ; and then the man 
 turned slowly from the bar. As he did so, an individual 
 who had seen him enter, and who had kept his eyes upon 
 him from the moment he passed through the door, came 
 towards him with a smile of pleasure upon his countenance, 
 and reaching out his hand, said, in an animated voice 
 
 " How are you, Martin, my good fellow ! How are 
 you ?" 
 
 And he grasped the poor wretch's hand with a hearty 
 grip and shook it warmly. Something like a smile lighted 
 up the marred and almost expressionless face of the miser 
 able creature, as he gave to the hand that had taken his a 
 responsive pressure, and replied, 
 
 " Oh! very well, very well, considering all things." 
 
 "Bad night out," said the man, as he sat down near a 
 stove, that was sending forth a genial heat. 
 
 "Yes, bad enough," returned Martin. A thought of the 
 damp and chilly air without caused him to shiver suddenly, 
 and draw a little nearer to the stove. 
 
 " Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, 
 where we can spend a pleasant evening among pleasant 
 friends, so much the more." 
 
 " Yes. It's very pleasant," said Martin, spreading him 
 self out before the stove, with a hand upon each knee, and 
 looking with an absent-minded air, through the opening in 
 the door, which had once been closed by a thin plate of 
 mica, and seeing strange forms in the glowing coals. 
 
 " Pleasant after a hard day's work," remarked the man, 
 with an insinuating air. 
 
 " I don't know what life would be worth, if seasons of 
 recreation and social intercourse did not come, nightly, to 
 relieve both body and mind from their wearisomeness and 
 exhaustion." 
 
 " Yes yes. It's tiresome enough to have to sit and 
 turn a wheel all day," said Martin. 
 
 " And a relief to get into a place like this at night," re 
 turned the man, rubbing his hands with animation. 
 
 " It's a great deal better than sitting at the wheel," sighed 
 Martin. 
 
 " I should think it was ! Come ! won't you liquor.
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 285 
 
 " Thank you ! I've just taken something." 
 
 " No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try 
 something more." And he arose, as he spoke, and moved 
 towards the bar. 
 
 Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so 
 he followed to the counter. 
 
 " What'll you take ? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or 
 spirits ? Any thing, so it's strong enough to drink to old 
 acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?" And he leered in 
 Martin's face with a sinister expression, and slapped him 
 familiarly on the shoulder. 
 
 " Brandy," said Martin. 
 
 "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Set out 
 your pure old Cogniac ! Toby. A drink for the gods !" 
 
 " Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of 
 your feet!" added the man after he had turned off his 
 glass. " Don't you say so, Martin ?" 
 
 " Yes ! and through your stockings to your very shoes !" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with 
 a forced effort. " Why, Bill Martin, you're a wit!" 
 
 "It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with 
 more truth than jest. 
 
 " That brandy would put life into a grindstone !" 
 
 " It's put life into our friend here, without doubt." And 
 as the very disinterested companion of Martin said this, he 
 slapped him again upon the shoulder. 
 
 The two men turned from the bar and sat down again by 
 the stove, both getting more and more familiar and chatty." 
 
 " Suppose we try a game of dominoes or chequers?" at' 
 length suggested the friend. 
 
 " No objection," replied Martin. " Any thing to make 
 the time pass agreeably. Suppose we say chequers ?" 
 
 " Very well. Here's a board. We'll go into the back 
 room where it's more quiet." 
 
 The two men retired into the little den in the rear of the 
 bar-room, where were several parties engaged at cards or 
 dice. 
 
 " Here's a cozy little corner," said the pleasant friend of 
 Martin. " We can be as quiet as kittens." 
 
 " What's the stake ?" he next inquired, as soon as the 
 board was opened and the pieces distributed. " Shall we 
 say a bit ?" 
 
 35 

 
 286 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 Martin received, at the close of each day, his earnings. 
 Of his seventy-five cents, he had already paid out for 
 board thirty- one and a quarter cents ; and for a glass of 
 liquor and some tobacco, six cents more. So he had but 
 thirty-seven and a half cents.- This sum he drew from his 
 pocket, and counted over with scrupulous accuracy, so as 
 to be sure of the amount. While he was doing so, his 
 companion's eyes were fixed eagerly upon the small coins 
 in his hands, in order, likewise, to ascertain their sum. 
 
 "A bit let it be." And the man laid down a twelve- 
 and-a-half-cent piece. 
 
 " No ! We'll start with a picayune," said Martin, select 
 ing the smaller coin and placing it on the table. 
 
 " That's too trifling. Say a bit," returned the man, but 
 half concealing the eager impatience he felt to get hold of 
 the poor wretch's money. 
 
 " Well, I don't care ! Call it a bit, then," said Martin. 
 And the coin was staked. 
 
 An observer would have been struck with the change 
 that now came over Martin. His dull eyes brightened ; 
 something like light came flashing into his almost expres 
 sionless face, and his lips arched with the influx of new 
 life and feeling. He moved his pieces on the board with 
 the promptness and skill of one accustomed to the game, 
 and, though he played with an opponent whose clearer 
 head gave him an advantage, he yet held his own with 
 remarkable pertinacity, and was not beaten until after a long 
 and well-balanced struggle. But beaten he was ; and one- 
 third of all he possessed in the world passed from his hand. 
 
 Another twelve-and-a-half-cent piece was staked, and, 
 in like manner, lost. 
 
 " I can't go but a picayune this time," said Martin, \vhen 
 the pieces were arranged for the third game. " My funds 
 are getting too low." 
 
 " Very well, a picayune let it be. Any thing just to 
 give a little interest to the game. I'm sure you'll win this 
 time." 
 
 And win Martin did. This elated him. He played 
 another game and lost. The next was no more successful. 
 Only a single picayune now remained. For a short time 
 he hesitated about risking this. Ha wanted more liquor ; 
 and, if he lost, there would be no means left to gratify the
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 287 
 
 ever burning thirst that consumed him. Not until the 
 close of the next day would he receive any money ; and , 
 without money, he could get nothing. There were unpaid 
 scores against him in a dozen shops. 
 
 "Try again. Don't be afraid. You're a better player 
 than I am. You'll be sure to win. Luck lies in the last 
 sixpence. Don't you know that ?" 
 
 Thus urged, Martin put down the last small remnant of 
 his day's earnings. The interest taken in the games had 
 nearly counteracted the effects of the liquor, and he was, 
 therefore, able to play with a skill nearly equal to that of 
 his companion. Slowly and thoughtfully he made hiai 
 moves, and calculated the effect of every change in the 
 board with as much intelligence as it was possible for him 
 to summon to his aid. But luck, so called, was against 
 him. His three last pieces, kings, were swept from the 
 board by a single play of his adversary, at a moment when 
 he believed himself sure of the game. A bitter impreca 
 tion fell from his lips, as he turned from the table, and 
 thrusting his hands nearly to his elbows in his pockets, 
 stalked into the bar-room, leaving the man who had won 
 from him the remnant of his day's earnings for the twentieth 
 time, to enjoy the pleasures of success. This man was too 
 much occupied in kind attentions to others who were to be 
 his victims, to even see Martin again during the evening. 
 
 After having lost his last farthing, the latter, feeling- 
 miserable enough, sat down at a table on which were three 
 or four newspapers, and tried to find in them something to 
 interest his mind. He was nearer to being sober than he 
 had been for many weeks. On the night before, he had 
 gambled away his last penny, and the consequence was, 
 that he had been obliged to do without liquor all day. The 
 effects of the two glasses he had taken since nightfall had 
 been almost -entirely obliterated by the excitement of the 
 petty struggle through which he had passed, and his mind 
 was, therefore, in a more that usually disturbed state. The 
 day had been one of troubled feelings, and the night found 
 him less happy than he had been through the day. 
 
 As he ran his eye over the newspaper he was trying to 
 read, pausing now and then at a paragraph, and seeking to 
 find in it something of interest, the words, " Thanksgiving 
 in Massachusetts," arrested his attention. He read over the
 
 288 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 few lines that followed this heading. They were a simple 
 statement of the fact, that a certain day in November had 
 been appointed as a thanksgiving day by the Governor of 
 Massachusetts, followed by these brief remarks by some 
 editor who had recorded the fact : " How many look for 
 ward to this day as a time of joyful re-union! And such it 
 is to thousands of happy families. But, somehow, we al 
 ways think of the vacant places that death or absence leaves 
 at many tables ; and of the shadows that come over the 
 feelings of those who gather in the old homestead. Of the 
 absent, how many are wanderers, like the poor prodigal ! 
 And how gladly would they be received if they would only 
 return, and let all the unhappy past be forgotten and for 
 given ! Does, by any chance, such a wanderer's eye fall 
 upon these few sentences ? If so, we do earnestly and 
 tenderly entreat him, by the love of his mother, that is 
 still with him, no matter how far he has gone from the right 
 path, to come back on this blessed day ; and thus make the 
 thanksgiving of that mother's heart complete." 
 
 Every word of this appeal, which seemed as if it were 
 addressed directly to himself, touched a responsive feeling 
 in the bosom of Martin. One after another, images of other 
 days passed before him innocent, happy days. His mo 
 ther's face, his mother's voice, her very words were present 
 with unwonted vividness. Then came the recollection of 
 blessed re-unions on the annual Thanksgiving festival. 
 The rush of returning memories was too strong for the poor, 
 weak, depressed wanderer from home and happiness. He 
 felt the waters of repentance gathering in his eyes ; and he 
 drew his hand suddenly across them, with an instinctive 
 effort to check their flow. But a fountain, long sealed, had 
 been touched ; and, ere he was more than half aware of 
 the tendency of his feelings, a tear came forth and rested on 
 his cheek. It was brushed away quickly. Another fol 
 lowed, and another. The man had lost his self-control. 
 Into one of the lowest haunts of vice and dissipation the 
 voice of his mother had come, speaking to him words of 
 hope. Even here had her image followed him, and he saw 
 her with the old smile of love upon her face. And he saw 
 the smile give way to looks of sorrow, and heard the voice 
 saying, in tones of the tenderest entreaty, " William ! my 
 poor wanderer ! come home ! Come home !"
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 289 
 
 Oh ! with what deep, heart-aching sincerity did the poor 
 wretch wish that he had never turned aside into the ways 
 of folly. 
 
 " If I could but go home and die!" he said, mentally. 
 " If I could but feel my mother's hand upon my forehead, 
 and hear her voice again!" 
 
 He had remained sitting at the table with the newspaper 
 before his face, to hide from other eyes all signs of emotion. 
 But, the new feelings awakened were, in no degree, conge 
 nial to the gross, depraved, and sensual sphere by which 
 he was surrounded; and, as he had no money left, and, 
 therefore, no means of gratifying his thirst for liquor, there 
 was no inducement for him longer to breathe the polluted 
 atmosphere. Rising, therefore, he quietly retired ; no one 
 asking him to stay or expressing surprise at his departure 
 He had no money to spend at the bar, nor to lose at the 
 gaming^ table ; and was not, therefore, an object of the 
 slightest interest to any. 
 
 As Martin stepped into the street, the cold rain struck 
 him in the face, and the chilly air penetrated his thin, tat 
 tered garments. The driving mist of the early evening had 
 changed to a heavy shower, and the street was covered 
 with water. Through this he plunged as he crossed over, 
 and entered his boarding-house, dripping from head to foot. 
 He did not stop to speak with any one, but groped his way 
 in the dark to the attic. Removing a portion of his wet 
 clothing, he threw himself upon his bed. He had not 
 come to sleep, but to be alone that he might think. But 
 thought grew so painful that he would fain have found re 
 lief in slumber, had that been possible. 
 
 " If I had never strayed from the right path !" he mur 
 mured, as he tossed himself uneasily. " Oh ! if I had 
 never strayed !" 
 
 " Go back ?" he said, aloud, after some minutes' silence, 
 answering to his own thoughts. " No no ! I will not 
 blast them by my presence. Let them be happy.", 
 
 But the wish to return, once felt, grew every moment 
 stronger, and he struggled against it until, at last, after 
 hours of bitter remorse and repentance, weary nature yield 
 ed, and he fell off' into a more quiet sleep than he had 
 known for weeks. In this sleep came many dreams, all of 
 home, the old pleasant home, around which clustered every
 
 290 THE WA NDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 happy memory of his life ; and when morning came, it 
 found him longing to return to that home with an irrepres 
 sible desire. 
 
 " I will go back," said he, in a firm voice, as he arose 
 at day's dawn, his mind clear and calm. "I will go home. 
 Home home !" 
 
 This proved no mere effervescence of the mind. The 
 idea, once fully entertained, kept possession of his thoughts. 
 His first resolution was to save his earnings until he had 
 enough to procure decent clothing and pay his passage 
 back. A week he kept to this resolution, not once tasting 
 a drop of any intoxicating liquor. But by that time he 
 was so impatient of delay, that he changed his purpose, 
 and procured a situation as deck-hand on board a steam 
 boat that was about leaving for Pittsburg. For this ser 
 vice, he was to receive three dollars for the trip, besides 
 being furnished with his meals. During his week of so 
 briety, he had been able to save two dollars. With this 
 money he got an old pair of boots mended which his em 
 ployer at the manufactory had given him, and had his 
 clothes repaired and washed, all of which materially im 
 proved his appearance, and gave occasion for several 
 of his fellow-workmen to speak encouragingly, which 
 strengthened him greatly in his good purpose. 
 
 During the passage up the river, Martin was subjected 
 to many temptations, and once or twice came near falling 
 into his old ways. But thoughts of home came stealing 
 into his mind at the right moment, and saved him. 
 
 With three dollars in his pocket, the wages he had re 
 ceived from the steamboat captain, Martin started for 
 Philadelphia on foot. He w r as eight days on the journey. 
 When he arrived, his boots were worn through, his money 
 all expended, and himself sick with fatigue, sad and 
 dispirited. Luckily he met an old acquaintance, who was 
 a hand on board a schooner loading with coal for Boston. 
 The vessel was to pass through the canal, and then go by 
 the way of Long Island Sound. Martin told his story to 
 this old crony, who had once been a hard drinker but was 
 now reformed, and he persuaded the captain to give him a 
 passage. 
 
 Just two weeks from the time of his leaving Cincinnati, 
 Martin saw the sails expand above him, and felt the on-
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 291 
 
 ward movement of the vessel that was to bear him home 
 ward. His heart swelled with sad yet pleasant emotions. 
 It was a long time since he had heard from home ; and 
 longer still since he had seen the face of any member of 
 his family. For years he had been a wanderer. Now 
 returning, a mere wreck, so marred in every feature, and 
 so changed, that even love would almost fail to recognize 
 him, the eyes of his mind were bent eagerly forward. And, 
 as the distance grew less and less, and he attempted to 
 realize more and more perfectly the meeting soon to take 
 place, his heart would beat heavily in his bosom, and a 
 dimness come before his mental vision. 
 
 Thanksgiving, that day of days in New England, had 
 come round again. Among the thousands by whom it was 
 celebrated as a festive occasion, were the Martins, who 
 resided in a village only a few miles from Boston. Old 
 Mr. and Mrs. Martin had four children, two sons and two 
 daughters. One of the daughters remained at home. Ra 
 chel, the oldest of the daughters, was in her twenty-third 
 year ; and Martha was nineteen. The former was married 
 and lived in the village. Thomas, next older than Rachel, 
 was also married. He resided ten miles away. The old 
 est of them all, William, was a wanderer ; or, for ought 
 they knew to the contrary, had long since passed to his 
 great account. As many as five years had gone by since 
 there had come from him any tidings ; and nearly eight 
 years since his place had been vacant at the Thanksgiving 
 re-unions. 
 
 The day rose calm and bright on happy thousands. 
 Perhaps no family in all New England would have experi 
 enced a purer delight on this occasion, than that of the 
 Martins, had not the vacant place of an absent member 
 reminded them of the wandering, it might be the lost. 
 Thomas was there with his gentle wife and three bright 
 children ; Rachel with her husband and babe ; and Martha 
 with her sweet young face, that was hardly ever guiltless 
 of a smile. But William was away ; and the path in 
 which he was treading, if he were yet alive, was hidden 
 from their view by clouds and darkness. 
 
 Dinner, that chiefest event of every Thanksgiving day, 
 was served immediately after the return of the family from 
 church. It had been prepared by the hands of Martha,
 
 292 
 
 THE WA NDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 and she was in the act of taking an enormous turkey from 
 the oven, when a man came to the door, and, without 
 speaking a word, stood and looked at her attentively. She 
 noticed him as she turned from the oven. He was a sad 
 looking object for a New England village on Thanksgiving 
 day. His eyes were sunken, his face thin and pale, and 
 his old tattered garments hung loosely on his meager limbs. 
 He looked like one just from a bed of sickness, and he 
 bent, leaning upon a rough stick, like an old man yielding 
 to the weight of years. Yet, poor and weak as he seemed, 
 his clothes were clean, and his face had been recently 
 shaven. 
 
 Struck with his appearance, Martha paused and looked 
 at him earnestly. 
 
 " Will you let me rest here for a little while ?" said the 
 stranger, as soon as he had attracted Martha's attention. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. Sit down," replied Martha, whose sympa 
 thies were instantly awakened by the man's appearance. 
 And she handed him a chair. 
 
 Just then, Rachel, who had taken off her things on 
 returning from church, came into the kitchen to assist Mar 
 tha with the dinner. She merely glanced at the man ; but 
 he fixed upon her a most earnest look, and followed her 
 about with his eyes as she moved from one part of the 
 room to another. 
 
 " Martha !" called Mrs. Martin from the adjoining room. 
 Neither of the sisters saw the start which the man gave, 
 nor observed the quick flush that went over his face, as he 
 turned his head in the direction from which the sound came. 
 
 Martha ran in to see what her mother wanted. In a 
 little while she came back, and, as she entered the kitchen, 
 she could not help remarking the strange earnestness with 
 which the man looked at her. 
 
 Presently, Mrs. Martin herself came in. She was sur 
 prised at seeing the miserable looking object who had 
 intruded himself upon them at a time that seemed so inop 
 portune. 
 
 " Who is that, Martha ?" she asked in a low voice, 
 aside. 
 
 " I don't know," was answered in the same low tone 
 not so low, however, as to be inaudible to the quick ears 
 of the stranger.
 
 THE WANDERERS RETURN. 295 
 
 " What is he doing here ?" 
 
 " He asked me if I would let him rest for a little while ; 
 and I couldn't say no. He looks sick ; and he must be 
 very poor." 
 
 "Yes, poor, indeed 1 " returned Mrs. Martin with a sigh; 
 a thought of her own poor wanderer crossing her mind. 
 This thought caused her to turn to the man and say to him, 
 
 " Have you been sick, my friend ?" 
 
 The man who had been looking at her intently from the 
 moment that she entered the room, now turned his face 
 partly away as he replied 
 
 " Yes. I've been sick for a number of days, but I am 
 better now." 
 
 " You look very poor." 
 
 " I am poor poor indeed !" 
 
 " You do not belong to these parts?' 1 
 
 " I do not deserve to," replied the man, low and 
 evasively. 
 
 " Where do your friends live ?" 
 
 " I don't know that I have any friends," said the man. 
 There was a slight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answer- 
 ingly, a chord in the heart of his questioner. 
 
 " No friends !" 
 
 " There still live those who were once my friends." 
 
 " And why not your friends now *" t 
 
 The man shook his head, sadly. 
 
 " I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they 
 have long since cast me forth from their regard." 
 
 " Then you have no mother," said Mrs. Martin, quickly. 
 " A mother's love cannot die." 
 
 " I have a mother, and I have sisters," replied the man, 
 after a pause. " Feel kindly towards me for their sakes. 
 I have wandered long; but I am repentant; and, now 
 returning to my old home, I seek " 
 
 The voice that had been low and unsteady at the begin 
 ning, sunk sobbing into silence, and the stranger's head 
 drooped upon his bosom. At that moment, Mr. Martin 
 entered, and seeing the man, he exclaimed 
 
 " Who in the world is this ?" 
 
 " William ?" fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, 
 from the mother's lips. 
 
 36
 
 '296 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 "My mother!" ejaculated the stranger, starting forward, 
 and falling into her open arms. 
 
 " William William !" said Mr. Martin. "Oh! no! 
 It cannot be!" 
 
 " It is ! Yes ! It is my poor, poor boy!" replied the 
 mother, disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and 
 pushing him off so that she could get a full view of his 
 face. " Oh ! William ! My son! my son!" And again 
 she hugged him wildly to her .bosom. 
 
 How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy 
 Thanksgiving day, need not be told. There was no longer 
 a vacant place at the board ; and thought turned not away, 
 doubtingly, in a vain search for the absent and the wander 
 ing. The long lost had been found ; the straying member 
 had come home. Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving fes 
 tival. Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that 
 repenteth, made glad the mother's heart that day. And it 
 has been glad ever since, for, though Thanksgiving days 
 have come again and again, there has been no absent 
 member since William's return.
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " You 'LL sign it, I 'm sure," said a persevering Wash 
 ingtonian, who had found his way into a little village grog 
 shop, and had there presented the pledge to some three 
 or four of its half-intoxicated inmates. The last man 
 whom he addressed, after having urged the others to no 
 effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and had 
 a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that 
 attracted rather than repelled. The marks of the de 
 stroyer were, however, upon him, showing themselves 
 with melancholy distinctness. 
 
 " You '11 sign, I 'm sure, Jim." 
 
 " O, of course," replied the individual addressed, wink 
 ing, as he did so to the company, as much as to say 
 " Don't you want to see fun ?" 
 
 " Yes, but you will, I know ?" 
 
 " Of course I will. Where 's the document?" 
 
 " Here it is," displaying a sheet of paper with sundry 
 appropriate devices, upon which was printed in conspicu 
 ous letters, 
 
 " We whose names ," &c. 
 
 " That 's very pretty, aint it, Ike ?" said Jim, or James 
 Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner. 
 
 " O, yes very beautiful." 
 
 " Just see here," ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette 
 over the pledge. "This spruce chap, swelled out with 
 cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in 
 more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose." 
 
 A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to 
 the company exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took 
 it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who 
 the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his 
 hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, dis 
 tressed woman, following after him. 
 
 297
 
 298 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " Another cold-water man, I suppose," Jim Braddock 
 replied ; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies 
 was so hearty as before. 
 
 " O, no. That 's a little mistake into which you have 
 fallen," Malcom said, smiling. "He is one of your fire 
 water men. Don't you see how he has been scorched 
 with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see such a 
 miserable looking creature 1 And his poor children and 
 his wife ! But I will say nothing about them. The pic 
 ture speaks for itself." 
 
 " Here 's a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a 
 temperance speech !" cried the keeper of the grog-shop, 
 coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the 
 group. 
 
 " O, yes. Give us a temperance speech !" rejoined Jim 
 Braddock, not at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving 
 up his examination of the pledge, which had revived in 
 his mind some associations of not the pleasantest charac 
 ter in the world. 
 
 " No objection at all," replied the ready Washingtonian, 
 mounting the rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indi 
 cated, to the no small amusement of the company, and 
 the great relief of Jim Braddock, who began to feel that 
 the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his mouth, as 
 he afterwards expressed it. 
 
 "Now for some rare fun !" ejaculated one of the group 
 that gathered around the whiskey-barrel upon which Mal 
 com stood. 
 
 " This is grand sport !" broke in another. 
 
 " Take your text, Mr. Preacher !" cried a third. 
 
 " O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon !" 
 added a fourth, rubbing his hands with great glee. 
 
 'Very well," Malcom replied, with good humour. 
 " Now for the text." 
 
 " Yes, give us the text," ran around the circle. 
 
 " My text will be found in Harry Arnold's grog-shop, 
 Main street, three doors from the corner. It is in these 
 words: 'Whiskey-barrel.' Upon this text I will now, 
 with your permission, make a few remarks." 
 
 Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon 
 the wretched being there represented as the follower after 
 strong drink, he went on .:
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 299 
 
 " You all see this poor creature here, and his wife and 
 children well, as my text and his fall from happiness and 
 respectability are inseparably united, I will, instead of 
 giving you a dry discourse on an empty whiskey-barrel, 
 narrate this man's history, which involves the whiskey- 
 barrel, and describes how it became empty, and finally 
 how it came here. I will call him James Bradly but 
 take notice, that I call him a little out of his true name, 
 so as not to seem personal. 
 
 "Well, this James Bradly was a house-carpenter I 
 say was for although still living, he is no longer an 
 industrious house-carpenter, but a very industrious grog- 
 drinker, he has changed his occupation. About five 
 years ago, I went to his house on some business. It was 
 about dinner-time, and the table was set, and the dinner 
 on it. 
 
 " Come, take some dinner with me,' Mr. Bradly said, 
 in such a kind earnest way, that I could not resist, especi 
 ally as his wife looked so happy and smiling, and the 
 dinner so neatly served, plentiful and inviting. So I sat 
 down with Mr. and Mrs. Bradly, and two fat, chubby- 
 faced children ; and I do not think I ever enjoyed so 
 pleasant a meal in my life. 
 
 " After dinner was over, Mr. Bradly took me all through 
 his house, which was new. He had just built it, and 
 furnished it with every convenience that a man in mode 
 rate circumstances could desire. I was pleased with 
 everything I saw, and praised everything with a hearty 
 good will. At last he took me down into the cellar, and 
 showed me a barrel of flour that he had just bought 
 twenty bushels of potatoes and turnips laid in for the 
 winter, five large fat hogs, and I can't remember what 
 all. Beside these, there was a barrel of something lying 
 upon the cellar floor. 
 
 " ' What is this ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' O, that is a barrel of whiskey that I have laid in 
 also.' 
 
 " ' A barrel of whiskey !' I said, in surprise. 
 
 " ' Yes. I did some work for Harry Arnold, and the 
 best I could do was to take this barrel of good old ' rye' 
 in payment. But it is just as well. It will be a saving in 
 the ad '
 
 300 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " ' How so V I asked. 
 
 "'Why, because there are more than twice as many 
 drams in this barrel of whiskey, as I could get for what I 
 paid for it. Of course, I save more than half.' 
 
 " But have you taken into your calculation the fact, 
 that, in consequence of having a barrel of whiskey so 
 handy, you will drink about two glasses to one that you 
 would want if you had to go down to Harry Arnold's for 
 it every time'?' 
 
 " ' O yes, I have,' Bradly replied. ' But still I calculate 
 on it being a saving, from the fact that I shall not lose so 
 much time as I otherwise would do. A great deal of 
 time, you know, is wasted in these dram-shops.' 
 
 " ' All true. But have you never considered the danger 
 arising from the habitual free use of liquor such a free 
 use as the constant sight of a whole barrel of whiskey 
 may induce you to make ?' 
 
 " ' Danger !' ejaculated Mr. Bradly in surprise. 
 
 " ' Yes, danger,' I repeated. 
 
 " ' Of what ?' he asked. 
 
 " ' Of becoming too fond of liquor,' I replied. 
 
 " ' I hope you do not wish to insult me in my own 
 house, Mr. Malcom,' the carpenter said, rather sternly. 
 
 " ' O no,' I replied. ' Of course I do not. I only took 
 the liberty that a friend feels entitled to use, to hint at 
 what seemed to me a danger that you might be running 
 into blindly.' 
 
 " Mrs. Bradly, who had gone through the house with 
 us, enjoying my admiration of all their comfortable 
 arrangements, seemed to dwell with particular interest on 
 what I said in reference to the whiskey-barrel. She was 
 now leaning affectionately upon her husband's arm her 
 own drawn through his, and her hands clasped together 
 looking up into his face with a tender and confiding 
 regard. I could not help noticing her manner, and the 
 expression of her countenance. And yet it seemed to me 
 that something of concern was on her face, but so indis 
 tinct as to be scarcely visible. Of this I was satisfied, 
 when she said, 
 
 " ' I don't think there is much use in drinking liquor, do 
 vou, Mr. Malcom 1' 
 
 " ' I cannot see that there is,' I replied, of course.
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 301 
 
 " ' Nor can I. Of one thing I think I am certain, and 
 that is, that James would be just as comfortable and happy 
 without it as with it.' 
 
 " ' You don't know what you are talking about, Sally,' 
 her husband replied good-humouredly, for he was a man 
 of excellent temper, and a little given to jesting. ' But I 
 suppose you thought it good for you last christmas, when 
 you got boozy on egg-nog.' 
 
 " ' O James, how can you talk so !' his wife exclaimed, 
 her face reddening. ' You know that you served me a 
 shaneful trick then.' 
 
 " ' What do you think he did, Mr. Malcom ?' she added, 
 turning to me, while her husband laughed heartily at what 
 she said. ' He begged me to let him make me a little 
 wine egg-nog, seeing that I wouldn't touch that which had 
 brandy in it, because liquor always flies to my head. To 
 please him, I consented, though I didn't want it. And 
 then, the rogue fixed me a glass as strong again with 
 brandy as that which I had refused to take. I thought 
 while I was drinking it, that it did not taste likawine, and 
 told him so. But he declared that it was wine, and that 
 it was so sweet that I could not clearly perceive its flavour. 
 Of course I had to go to bed, and didn't get fairly over it 
 for two or three days. Now, wasn't that too bad, Mr. 
 Malcom !' 
 
 " Indeed it was, Mrs. Bradly,' I said in reply. 
 
 " ' It was a capital joke, though, wasn't it V rejoined 
 her husband, laughing immoderately. 
 
 " ' I '11 tell you a good way to retort on him,' I said, 
 jestingly. 
 
 " < How is that, Mr. Malcom ?' 
 
 " ' Pull the tap out of his whiskey-barrel.' 
 
 "'I would, if I dared.' 
 
 " She'd better not try that, I can tell her.' 
 
 " ' What would you do, if I did V she asked. 
 
 " ' Buy two more in its place, and make you drink one 
 of them.' 
 
 " ' O dear ! I must beg to be excused from that. But, 
 indeed, James, I wish you would let it run. I'm really 
 ashamed to have it said, that my husband keeps a barre' 
 of whiskey in the house.'
 
 302 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " ' Nonsense, Sally ! you don't know what you are talk 
 ing about.' 
 
 " ' Well, perhaps I don't,' the wife said, and remained 
 silent, for there was a half-concealed rebuke in her hus 
 band's tone of voice. 
 
 " I saw that I could say no more about the whiskey- 
 barrel, and so I dropped the subject, and, in a short time, 
 after having finished my business with Mr. Bradly, went 
 away. 
 
 "'Well, how comes on the whiskey-barrel?' I said to 
 him, about a month after, as we met on the road. 
 
 " 'First-rate,' was his reply. 'It contains a prime article 
 of good old ' rye,' I can tell you. The best I have ever 
 tasted. Come, won't you go home with me and try some 1 ?' 
 ' " ' No, I believe not.' 
 
 " ' Do now come along,' and he took me by the button, 
 and pulled me gently. ' You don't know how fine it is. 
 I am sure there is not another barrel like it in the town.' 
 
 " ' You must really excuse me, Bradly,' I replied, for I 
 found that he was in earnest, and what was more, had a 
 watery look about the eyes, that argued badly for him, I 
 thought. 
 
 " ' Well, if you won't, you won't,' he said. ' But you 
 always were an unsocial kind of a fellow.' 
 
 " And so we parted. Six months had not passed before 
 it was rumoured through the neighbourhood, that Bradly 
 had begun to neglect his business ; and that he spent too 
 much of his time at Harry Arnold's. I met his wife one 
 day, about this time, and, really, her distressed look gave 
 me the heart ache. Something is wrong, certainly, I said 
 to myself. It was only a week after, that I met poor 
 Bradly intoxicated. 
 
 "' Ah, Malcom good day How are you?' he said, 
 reeling up to me and offering his hand. 'You havn't tried 
 that good old rye of mine yet. Come along now, it*s 
 most gone.' 
 
 " ' You must excuse me to-day, Mr. Bradly,' I replied, 
 trying to pass on. 
 
 " But he said I should not get off this time that home 
 with him I must go, and take a dram from his whiskey- 
 barrel. Of course, I did not go. If there had been no 
 other reason, I had no desire, I can assure you, to meet
 
 JIM BRADDOCKS PLEDGE. 303 
 
 his wife while her husband was in so sad a condition. 
 After awhile I got rid of him, and right glad was I to 
 do so." 
 
 " Come, that'll do for one day!" broke in Harry Arnold, 
 the grog-shop-keeper, at this point, not relishing too well 
 the allusions to himself, nor, indeed, the drift of the narra 
 tive, which he very well understood. 
 
 " No no go on ! go on !" urged two or three of the 
 group. But Jim Braddock said nothing, though he looked 
 very thoughtful. 
 
 "I'll soon get through," replied the Washingtonian, 
 showing no inclination to abandon his text. " You see, I 
 did not, of course, go home with poor Bradly, and he left 
 me with a drunken, half-angry malediction. That night 
 he went down into his cellar, late, to draw some whiskey, 
 and forgot his candle, which had been so carelessly set 
 down, that it set fire to a shelf, and before it was dis 
 covered the fire had burned through the floor above. 
 
 " Nearly all their furniture was saved, whiskey-barrel 
 and all, but the house was burned to the ground. Since 
 that time, Bradly will tell you that luck has been against 
 him. He has been going down, down, down, every year, 
 and now does scarcely anything but lounge about Harry 
 Arnold's grog-shop and drink, while his poor wife and 
 children are in want and suffering, and have a most 
 wretched look, as you may see by this picture on the 
 pledge. As for the whiskey-barrel, that was rolled down 
 here about a month ago, and sold for half a dollar's worth 
 of liquor, and here I now stand upon it, and make it the 
 foundation of a temperance speech. 
 
 " Now, let me ask you all seriously, if you do not think 
 that James Bradly owes his rapid downfall, in a great 
 measure, to the fact that Harry Arnold would not pay 
 him a just debt in anything but whiskey ? And again 
 Is Harry Arnold really your friend, that you are so willing 
 to beggar your wives and children to put money in his 
 till 1 I only ask the questions. You can answer then at 
 your leisure. So ends rny speech." 
 
 " You are an insulting fellow, let me tell you !" the 
 grog-shop-keeper said, as he turned away, angrily, and 
 went behind his counter. 
 
 37
 
 304 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 The Washingtonian took no notice of this, but went to 
 Jim Braddock, who stood in a musing attitude near the 
 door, and said 
 
 " You will sign now, won't you, Jim ?" 
 
 " No, I will not !" was his gruff response. "I am not 
 going to sign away my liberty for you or anybody else. 
 fc>o long as I live, I Ml be a free man." 
 
 " That 's right, Jim ! Huzza for liberty !" shouted his 
 companions. 
 
 " Yes, huzza for liberty ! say I," responded Braddock, 
 in the effort to rally himself, and shake off the thoughts 
 and feelings that Malcom's narrative had conjured up a 
 narrative that proved to be too true a history of his own 
 downfall. 
 
 " It was a shame for you to do what you did down at 
 Harry Arnold's," Braddock said to the Washingtonian 
 about half an hour afterwards, meeting him on the street. 
 
 " Do what, Jim !" 
 
 " Why, rake up all my past history as you did, and 
 insult Harry in his own house into the bargain." 
 
 " How did I insult Harry Arnold ?" 
 
 " By telling about that confounded whiskey-barrel that 
 I have wished .a hundred times had been in the bottom 
 of the sea, before it ever fell into my hands." 
 
 " I told the truth, didn't I ?" 
 
 " O yes it was all true enough, and a great deal too 
 true." " 
 
 " He owed you a bill ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you wanted your money ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But Harry wouldn't pay you in anything but whiskey?" 
 
 " No, he would not." 
 
 " And so you took a barrel of whiskey, that you did not 
 want, in payment ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "But would much rather have had the money?" 
 
 " Of course, I would." 
 
 " And yet, you are so exceedingly tender of Harry 
 Arnold's feelings, notwithstanding his agency in your 
 ruin, that you would not have him reminded of his original 
 baseness or rather his dishonesty in not paying you in
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 305 
 
 money, according to your understanding with him, for* 
 your work 1" 
 
 " I don't see any use in raking up these old things." 
 
 " The use is, to enable you to see your folly so clearly 
 as to cause you to abandon it. I am sure you not only 
 see it now, but feel it strongly." 
 
 " Well, suppose I do? what then?" 
 
 " Why, sign the pledge, and become a sober man." 
 
 "I 've made up my mind never to sign a pledge," was 
 the emphatic answer. 
 
 " Why r 
 
 " Because, I am determined to live and die a free man. 
 I '11 never sign away my liberty. My father was a free 
 man before me, and I will live and die a free man !" 
 
 " But you 're a slave now." 
 
 " " It is not true ! I am free. Free to drink, or free to 
 et it alone, as I choose." 
 
 " You are mistaken, Jim. You have sold yourself into 
 slavery, and the marks of the chains that still bind you, 
 are upon your body. You are the slave of a vile passion 
 that is too strong for your reason." 
 
 " I deny it. I can quit drinking if I choose." 
 
 " Then why don't you quit ?" 
 
 " Because I love to drink." 
 
 " And love to see your wife's cheek growing paler and 
 paler every day and your children ragged and neg 
 lected ?" 
 
 " Malcom !" 
 
 " I only asked the question, Jim." 
 
 " But you know that I don't love to see them in the con 
 dition they are." 
 
 " And still, you say that you can quit drinking when 
 ever you choose, but will not do so, because you love the 
 taste, or the effect of the liquor, 1 don't know which ?" 
 
 Braddock's feelings were a good deal touched, as they 
 had been, ever since Malcom's temperance speech in the 
 grog-shop. He stood silent for some time, and then said 
 
 " I know it's too bad for me to drink as I do, but I will 
 break off." 
 
 " You had better sign the pledge then." 
 
 " No, I will not do that. As I have told you, I am 
 resolved never to sign away my liberty."
 
 306 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " Very well. If you are fixed in your resolution, I sup 
 pose it is useless for me to urge the matter. For the 
 sake, then, of your wife and children, break away from 
 the fetters that bind you, and be really free. Now you 
 are not only a slave, but a slave in the most debasing 
 bondage." 
 
 The two then separated, and Jim Braddock in former 
 years it was Mr. Braddock returned to his house; a 
 very cheerless place, to what it had once been. Notwith 
 standing his abandonment of himself to drink and idleness, 
 Braddock had no ill-nature about him. Though he 
 neglected his family, he was not quarrelsome at home. 
 If Sally, his wife, sometimes got out of patience, as well 
 she might, and talked hard to him, he never retorted, but 
 always turned the matter off with a laugh or a jest. With 
 his children, he was always cheerful, and frequently 
 joined in their sports, when not too drunk to do so. All 
 this cool indifference, as it seemed to her, frequently 
 irritated his wife, and made her scold away at him with 
 might and main. He had but one reply to make when 
 ever this occurred, and that was 
 
 " There there Keep cool, Sally ! It will all go in 
 your lifetime, darling !" 
 
 As he came into the house after the not very pleasant 
 occurrence that had taken place at Harry Arnold's, he 
 saw by Sally's excited face and sparkling eyes that some 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 "What's the matter, Sally?" he asked. 
 
 " Don't ask me what 's the matter, if you please !" was 
 her tart reply. 
 
 " Yes, but I want to know ? Something is wrong." 
 
 " Something is always wrong, of course," Sally rejoined 
 " and something always will be wrong while you act 
 as you do. It's a burning shame for any man to abuse 
 his family as you are abusing yours. Jim " 
 
 " There there. Keep cool, Sally ! It will all go in 
 your lifetime, darling !" Jim responded, in a mild, soothing 
 tone. 
 
 " O yes : It 's very easy to say ' keep cool !' But I 'm 
 tired of this everlasting ' keep cool !' Quit drinking and go 
 to work, and then it '11 be time to talk about keeping cool 
 Here I 've been all the morning scraping up chips to
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 307 
 
 make the fire burn. Not a stick in the wood-pile, and 
 you lazing it down to Harry Arnold's. I wish to good 
 ness he was hung ! It 's too bad ! I 'm out of all manner 
 of patience !" 
 
 " There there. Keep cool, Sally ! It '11 all go " 
 
 " Hush, will you !" ejaculated Sally, stamping her foot, 
 all patience having left her over-tried spirit. " Keep 
 away from Harry Arnold's ! Quit drinking, and then it '11 
 be time for you to talk to me about keeping cool !" 
 
 " I 'm going to quit, Sally," Jim replied, altogether 
 unexcited by her words and manner. 
 
 " Nonsense !" rejoined Sally. " You Ve said that fifty 
 times." 
 
 " But I 'm going to do it now." 
 
 " Have you signed the pledge ?" 
 
 " No. I 'm not going to sign away my liberty, as I 
 have often said. But I 'm going to quit." 
 
 " Fiddle-de-de ! Sign away your liberty ! You Ve got no 
 liberty to sign away ! A slave, and talk of liberty !" 
 
 " Look here, Sally," her husband said, good-humoured- 
 ly, for nothing that she could say ever made him get 
 angry with her " you 're a hard-mouthed animal, and it 
 would take a strong hand to hold you in. But as I like 
 to see you go at full gallop, darling, I never draw a tight 
 rein. Aint you most out of breath yet 1 ?" 
 
 " You 're a fool, Jim !" 
 
 " There 's many a true word spoken in jest, Sally," her 
 husband responded in a more serious tone ; " I have been 
 a most egregious fool but I 'm going to try and act the 
 wise man, if I havn't forgotten how. So now, as little 
 Vic. said to her mother 
 
 ' Pray, Goody, cease and moderate 
 The rancour of your tongue.'" 
 
 Suddenly his wife felt that he was really in earnest, and 
 all her angry feelings subsided 
 
 " O James !" she said " if you would only be as you 
 once were, how happy we might all again be !" 
 
 " I know that, Sally. And 1 'm going to try hard to be 
 as I once was. There 's a little job to be done over at 
 Jones', and I promised him that I would do it for him to 
 day, but I got down to Harry Arnold's, and there wasted 
 my time until I was ashamed to begin a day's work. But
 
 308 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 to-morrow morning I '11 go over, and stick at it until it 's 
 done. It '11 be cash down, and you shall have every cent 
 it comes to, my old girl !" patting his wife on the cheek 
 as he said so. 
 
 Mrs. Braddock, of .course, felt a rekindling of hope in 
 her bosom. Many times before had her husband promised 
 amendment, and as often had he disappointed her fond 
 expectations. But still she suffered her heart to hope 
 again. 
 
 On the next morning, James Braddock found an early 
 breakfast ready for him when he got up. His hand trem 
 bled a good deal as he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, 
 which was insipid without the usual morning-dram to put 
 a taste in his mouth. He did not say much, for he felt an 
 almost intolerable craving for liquor, and this made him 
 serious. But his resolution was strong to .abandon his 
 former habits. 
 
 "You won't forget, James?" his wife said, laying her 
 hand upon his arm, and looking him earnestly and with 
 moistened eyes in the face, as he was about leaving the 
 house. 
 
 " No, Sally, I won't forget. Take heart, my good girl. 
 Let what 's past go for nothing. It 's all in our lifetime." 
 
 And so saying, Braddock turned away, and strode off 
 with a resolute bearing. His wife followed with her eyes 
 the form of her husband until it was out of sight, and then 
 closed the door with a long-drawn sigh. 
 
 The way to Mr. Jones' house was past Arnold's grog 
 shop, and as Braddock drew nearer and nearer to his 
 accustomed haunt, he felt a desire, growing stronger and 
 stronger every moment, to enter and join his old associates 
 over a glass of liquor. To this desire, he opposed every 
 rational objection that he could find. He brought up 
 before his mind his suffering wife and neglected children, 
 and thought of his duty to them. He remembered that it 
 was drink, and drink alone, that had been the cause of his 
 downfall. But with all these auxiliaries to aid him in 
 keeping his resolution, it seemed weak when opposed to 
 desires, which long continued indulgence had rendered 
 inordinate. Onward he went with a steady pace, forti 
 fying his mind all the while with arguments against drink 
 ing, and yet just ready at every moment to yield the
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 309 
 
 contest he was waging against habit and desire. At last 
 the grog-shop was in sight, and in a few minutes he was 
 almost at the door. 
 
 " Hurrah ! Here 's Jim Braddock, bright and early !" 
 cried one of his old cronies,- from among two or three 
 who were standing in front of the shop. 
 
 " So the cold-water-men havn't got you yet !" broke in 
 another. " I thought Jim Braddock was made of better 
 stuff." 
 
 " Old birds aint caught with chaff!" added a third. 
 
 " Come ! Hallo ! Where are you off to in such a hurry, 
 with your tools on your back ?" quickly cried the first 
 speaker, seeing that Braddock was going by without 
 showing any disposition to stop. 
 
 " I Ve got a job to do that 's in a hurry," replied Brad- 
 dock, pausing " and have no time to stop. And besides, 
 I 've sworn off." 
 
 " Sworn off! Ha ! ha ! Have you taken the pledge "?" 
 
 " No, I have not. I 'm not going to bind myself down 
 not to drink any thing. I '11 be a free man. But I won't 
 touch another drop, see if I do." 
 
 " O yes we '11 see. How long do you expect to keep 
 sober ?" 
 
 " Always." 
 
 " You '11 be drunk by night. ' 
 
 " Why do you say so ?" 
 
 " I say so that 's all ; and I know -so." 
 
 " But why do you say so ? Come, tell me that." 
 
 "O, I've seen too many swear off in my time and 
 I 've tried it too often myself. It 's no use. Not over one 
 in a hundred ever sticks to it ; and I 'm sure, Jim Brad- 
 dock 's not that exception." 
 
 " There are said to be a hundred reformed men in this 
 town now. I am sure, I know a dozen," Braddock 
 replied. 
 
 " O yes. But they 've signed the pledge." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I don't believe a man can keep sober any 
 the better by signing the pledge, than by resolving never 
 again to drink a drop." 
 
 " Facts are stubborn things, you know. But come, Jim, 
 as you havn't signed the pledge, you might as well come
 
 310 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 in and take a glass now, for you '11 do it before night, 
 take my word for it." 
 
 It was a fact, that Braddock began really to debate the 
 question with himself, whether he should or not go in and 
 take a single glass, when he became suddenly conscious 
 of his danger, turned away, and hurried on, followed by 
 the loud, jeering laugh of his old boon companions. 
 
 " Up-hill work," he muttered to himself, as he strode 
 onward. 
 
 An hour's brisk walking brought him to the residence 
 of Mr. Jones, nearly four miles away from the little town 
 in which he lived, where he entered upon his day's work, 
 resolved that, henceforth, he would be a reformed jnan. 
 At first he was nervous, from want of his accustomed 
 stimulus, and handled his tools awkwardly. But after 
 awhile, as the blood began to circulate more freely, the 
 tone of his system came up to a healthier action. 
 
 About eleven o'clock Mr. Jones came out to the building 
 upon which Braddock was at work, and after chatting a 
 little, said 
 
 " This is grog time, aint it, Jim ?" 
 
 " Yes sir, I believe it is," was the reply. 
 
 "Well, knock off then for a little while, and come into 
 the house and take a dram." 
 
 Now Mr. Jones was a very moderate drinker himself, 
 scarcely touching liquor for weeks at a time, unless in 
 company. But he always kept it in the house, and always 
 gave it to his workmen, as a matter of course, at eleven 
 o'clock. Had he been aware of Braddock's effort to 
 reform himself, he would as soon have thought of offering 
 him poison to drink as whiskey. But, knowing his habits, 
 he concluded, naturally, that the grog was indispensable, 
 and tendered it to him as he had always done before, on 
 like occasions. 
 
 " I 've signed the pledge," were the words that instantly 
 formed themselves in the mind of Braddock but were 
 instantly set aside, as that reason for not drinking would 
 not have been the true one. Could he have said that, all 
 difficulty would have vanished in a moment. 
 
 " No objection, Mr. Jones," was then uttered, and off 
 he started for the house, resolutely keeping down every 
 reason that struggled in his mind to rise and be heard.
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 311 
 
 The image of Mr. Jones, standing before him, with a 
 smiling invitation to come and take a glass, backed by his 
 own instantly aroused inclinations, had been too strong 
 an inducement. He felt, too, that it would have been 
 rudeness to decline the proffered hospitality. 
 
 " That 'a not bad to take, Mr. Jones," he said, smacking 
 his lips, after turning off a stiff glass. 
 
 " No, it is not, Jim. That 's as fine an article of whiskey 
 as I 've ever seen," Mr. Jones replied, a little flattered at 
 Braddock's approval of his liquor. "You're a good 
 judge of such matters." 
 
 "I ought to be." And as Jim said this, he turned out 
 another glass. 
 
 "That's right help yourself," was Mr. Jones' en 
 couraging remark, as he saw this. 
 
 " I never was backward at that, you know, Mr. Jones." 
 
 After eating a cracker and a piece of cheese, and tak 
 ing a third drink, Braddock went back and resumed his 
 work, feeling quite happy. After dinner Mr. Jones handed 
 him the bottle again, and did the same when he knocked 
 off in the evening. Of course, he was very far from being 
 sober when he started for home. As he came into town, 
 his way was past Harry Arnold's, whose shop he entered, 
 and was received with a round of applause by his old 
 associates, who saw at a glance that Jim was " a little 
 disguised." Their jokes were all received in good part, 
 and parried by treating all around. 
 
 When her husband left in the morning, Mrs. Braddock's 
 heart was lightened with a new hope, although a fear was 
 blended with that hope, causing them both to tremble in 
 alternate preponderance in her bosom. Still, hope would 
 gain the ascendency, and affected her spirits with a degree 
 of cheerfulness unfelt for many months. As the day began 
 to decline towards evening, after putting everything about 
 the house in order, she took her three children, washed 
 them clean, and dressed them up as neatly as their worn 
 and faded clothes would permit. This was in order to 
 make home present the most agreeable appearance possi 
 ble to her husband when he returned. Then she killed 
 a chicken and dressed it, ready to broil for his supper 
 made up a nice short-cake, and set the table with a 
 clean, white table-cloth. About sundown, she commenced 
 38
 
 312 JIM SHADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 baking the cake, and cooking the chicken, and at dusk 
 had them all ready to put on the table the moment he 
 came in. 
 
 " Your father is late," she -remarked to one of the chil 
 dren, after sitting in a musing attitude for about five 
 minutes, after everything was done that she could do 
 towards getting supper ready. As she said this, she got 
 up and went to the door and looked long and intently 
 down the street in the direction that she expected him, 
 calling each distant, dim figure, obscured by the deepening 
 twilight, his, until a nearer approach dispelled the illusion. 
 Each disappointment like this, caused her feelings to grow 
 sadder and sadder, until at length, as evening subsided 
 into night, with its veil of thick darkness, she turned into 
 the house with a heavy oppressive sigh, and rejoined the 
 children who were impatient for their supper. 
 
 " Wait a little while," was her reply to their impor 
 tunities. " Father will soon be here now." 
 
 She was still anxious that their father should see their 
 improved appearance. 
 
 " O no" urged one. " We want our supper now." 
 
 " O yes. Give us our supper now. I 'm so sleepy and 
 hungry," whined another. 
 
 And to give force to these, the youngest began to fret 
 and cry. Mrs. Braddock could delay no longer, and so 
 she set them up to the table and gave them as much as 
 they could eat. Then she undressed each in turn, and in 
 a little while, they were fast asleep. 
 
 When all was quiet, and the mother sat down to wait 
 for her husband's return, a feeling of deep despondency 
 came over her mind. It had been dark for an hour, and 
 yet he had not come home. She could imagine no reason 
 for this, other than the one that had kept him out so often 
 before drinking and company. Thus she continued to 
 sit, hour after hour, the supper untasted. Usually, her 
 evenings were spent in some kind of work in mending 
 her children's clothes, or knitting them stockings. But 
 now she had no heart to do anything. The state of 
 gloomy uncertainty that she was in, broke down her 
 spirits, for the time being. 
 
 Bedtime came; and still Braddock was away. She 
 waited an hour later than usual, and then retired, sinking
 
 FLEDGE. 313 
 
 back upon her pillow as she did so, in a state of hopeless 
 exhaustion of mind and body. 
 
 In the meantime, her husband had spent a merry even 
 ing at Harry Arnold's, drinking with more than his accus 
 tomed freedom. He was the last to go home, the thought 
 of meeting his deceived and injured wife, causing him to 
 linger. When he did leave, it was past eleven o'clock. 
 Though more than half-intoxicated on going from the grog 
 shop, the cool night air, and the thought of Sally, sobered 
 him considerably before he got home. Arrived" there, he 
 paused with his hand on the door for some time, reluctant 
 to enter. At last he opened the door, and went quietly 
 in, in the hope of getting up to bed without his wife's dis 
 covering his condition. The third step into the room 
 brought his foot in contact with a chair, and over he 
 \venL, jarring the whole house with his fall. His wife 
 heard this indeed her quick ear had detected the open 
 ing of the door and it caused her heart to sink like a 
 heavy weight in her bosom. 
 
 Gathering himself up, Braddock moved forward again 
 as steadily as he could, both hands extended before him. 
 A smart blow upon the nose from an open door, that had 
 insinuated itself between his hands, brought him up again, 
 and caused him, involuntarily, to dash aside the door which 
 shut with a heavy slam. Pausing now, to recall his 
 bewildered senses,, he resolved to move forward with 
 more caution, and so succeeded in gaining the stairs, up 
 which he went, his feet, softly as he tried to put them 
 down, falling like heavy lumps of lead, and making the 
 house echo again. He felt strongly inclined to grumble 
 about all the lights being put out, as he came into the 
 chamber but a distinct consciousness that he had no 
 right to grumble, kept him quiet, and so he undressed him 
 self with as little noise as possible, which was no very 
 small portion, for at almost every moment he stept on 
 something, or ran against something that seemed endowed 
 for the time with sonorous power of double the ordinary 
 capacity, and crept softly into bed. 
 
 Mrs. Braddock said nothing, and he said nothing. But 
 long before her eyelids closed in sleep, he was loudly 
 snoring by her side. When he awoke in the morning, 
 Sally had arisen and gone down. A burning thirst caused
 
 314 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 him to get up immediately and dress himself. There was 
 no water in the room, and if there had been, he could 
 not have touched it while there was to be had below a 
 cool draught from the well. So he descended at once, feel 
 ing very badly, and resolving over again that he would 
 never touch another drop of liquor as long as he lived. 
 Having quenched his thirst with a large bowl of cool 
 water drawn right from the bottom of the well, he went 
 up to his wife where she was stooping at the fire, and 
 said 
 
 " Sally, look here " 
 
 "Go 'way, Jim," was her angry response. 
 
 " No, but Sally, look here, I want to talk to you," per 
 sisted her husband. 
 
 " Go 'way, I say I don't care if I never see you 
 again !" 
 
 " So you've said a hundred times, but I never believed 
 you, or I might have taken you at your word." 
 
 To this his wife made no reply. 
 
 ' I was drunk last night, Sally," Jim said, after a mo 
 ment's silence. 
 
 " You needn't take the trouble to tell me that." 
 
 " Of course not. But an open confession, you know, 
 is good for the soul. I was drunk last night, then drunk 
 as a fool, after all I promised but I 'm not going to get 
 drunk again, so " 
 
 " Don't swear any more false oaths, Jim: you've sworn 
 enough already." 
 
 " Yes, but Sally, I am going to quit now, and I want 
 you to talk to me like a good wife, and advise with me." 
 
 " If you don't go away and let me alone now, I '11 
 throw these tongs at you !" the wife rejoined, angrily, 
 rising up and brandishing the article she had named. 
 "You are trying me beyond all manner of patience!" 
 
 "There there keep cool, Sally. It'll all go into 
 your lifetime, darlin'," Jim replied, good-humouredly, 
 taking hold of her hand, and extricating the tongs from 
 them, and then drawing his arm around her waist, and 
 *brcing her to sit down in a chair, while he took one just 
 beside her. 
 
 "Now, Sally, I'm in dead earnest, if ever I was in my 
 life," he began, " and if you '11 tell me any way to break
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 317 
 
 off from this wretched habit into which I have fallen, 
 I '11 do it." 
 
 " Go and sign the pledge, then." his wife said promptly, 
 and somewhat sternly. 
 
 " And give up my liberty ?" 
 
 " And regain it, rather. You're a slave now." 
 
 " I '11 do it, then, for your sake." 
 
 " Don't trifle with me, any more, James ; I can't bear 
 it much longer, I feel that I can't " poor Mrs. Braddock 
 said in a plaintive tone, while the tears came to her eyes. 
 
 " I wont deceive you any more, Sally. I '11 sign, and 
 I '11 keep my pledge. If I could only have said ' I 've 
 signed the pledge,' yesterday, I would have been safe. 
 But I 've got no pledge, and I 'm afraid to go out to hunt 
 up Malcom, for fear I shall see a grog-shop." 
 
 " Can't you write a pledge ?" 
 
 " No. I can't write anything but a bill, or a label for 
 one of your pickle-pots." 
 
 " But try." 
 
 " Well, give me a pen, some ink, and a piece of paper." 
 
 But there was neither, pen, ink, nor paper, in the house. 
 Mrs. Braddock, however, soon mustered them all in the 
 neighbourhood, and came and put them down upon the 
 table before her husband. 
 
 " There, now, write a pledge," she said. 
 
 " I will." And Jim took up the pen and wrote 
 
 " Blister my feathers if ever I drink another drop of Alcohol, 
 or anything that will make drunk come, sick or well, dead or 
 alive ! JIM BRADDOCK." 
 
 " But that 's a queer pledge, Jim." 
 
 " I don't care if it is. I '11 keep it." 
 
 " It 's just no pledge at all." 
 
 " You're an old goose ! Now give me a hammer and 
 four nails." 
 
 " What do you want with a hammer and four nails ?" 
 
 " I want to nail my pledge up over the mantelpiece." 
 
 " But it will get smoky." 
 
 "So will your aunty. Give me the hammer and 
 nails." 
 
 Jim's wife brought them as desired, and he nailed 
 his pledge up over the mantelpiece, and then read it off 
 with a proud, resolute air.
 
 318 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " I can keep that pledge, Sally, my old girl ! And what's 
 more, I will keep it, too !" he said, slapping his wife upon 
 the shoulder. " And now for some breakfast in double 
 quick time, for I must be at Jones's early this morning." 
 
 Mrs. Braddock's heart was very glad, for she had more 
 faith in this pledge than she had ever felt in any of his 
 promises. There was something of confirmation in the 
 act of signing his name, that strengthened her hopes. It 
 was not long before she had a good warm breakfast on 
 the table, of which her husband eat with a better appetite 
 than usual, and then, after reading his pledge over, Jim 
 started off. 
 
 As before, he had to go past Harry Arnold's, and early 
 as it was, there were already two or three of his cronies 
 there for their morning dram. He saw them about the 
 door while yet at a distance, but neither the grog-shop 
 nor his old companions had now any attraction for him. 
 He was conscious of standing on a plain that lifted him 
 above their influence. As he drew near, they observed 
 him, and awaited his approach with pleasure, for his fine 
 flow of spirits made his company always desirable. But 
 as he showed no inclination to stop, he was hailed, just as 
 he was passing, with, 
 
 "Hallo, Jim ! Where are you off to in such a hurry?" 
 
 " Off to my work like an honest, sober man," Jim re 
 plied, pausing to return his answer. " I 've taken the 
 pledge, my hearties, and what 's more, I 'm going to keep 
 it. It's all down in black and white, and my name's to it 
 in the bargain, so there 's an end of the matter, you see ! 
 Good bye, boys ! I 'm sorry to leave you, but you must 
 
 ?D my way if you want my company. Good bye, Harry ! 
 ou've got the old whiskey-barrel, and that's the last 
 you'll ever get of mine. I never had any good luck 
 while it was in my house, and I am most heartily glad 
 it's out, and in your whiskey-shop, where I hope it will 
 stay. Good bye, old cronies !" 
 
 And so saying, Jim turned away, and walked off with 
 a proud, erect bearing. His old companions raised a 
 feeble shout, but according to Jim's account, the laugh 
 was so much on the wrong side of their mouths, that it 
 didn't seem to him anything like a laugh.
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 319 
 
 At eleven o'clock, Mr. Jones came out as usual, and 
 said 
 
 " Well, Jim, I suppose you begin to feel a little like it 
 was grog-time 1 ?" 
 
 " No, sir," Jim replied. " I 'm done with grog." 
 
 "Done with grog!" ejaculated Mr. Jones, in pleased 
 surprise. " Why, you didn't seem at all afraid of it, yes 
 terday ]" 
 
 "I did drink pretty hard, yesterday; but that was all 
 your fault." 
 
 " My fault ! How do you make that out ?" 
 
 "Clear enough. Yesterday morning, seeing what a 
 poor miserable wretch I had got to be, and how much my 
 wife and children were suffering, I swore off from ever 
 touching another drop. I wouldn't sign a pledge, though, 
 because that, I thought, would be giving up my freedom. 
 In coming here, I got past Harry Arnold's grog-shop 
 pretty well, but when you came out so pleasantly at 
 eleven o'clock, and asked me to go over to the house and 
 take a drink, I couldn't refuse for the life of me espe 
 cially as I felt as dry as a bone. So I drank pretty 
 freely, as you know, and went home, in consequence, 
 drunk at night, 'notwithstanding I had promised Sally, 
 solemnly, in the morning, never to touch another drop 
 again as long as I lived. Poor soul! Bad enough, and 
 discouraged enough, she felt last night, I know. 
 
 " So you see when I got up this morning, I felt half- 
 determined to sign the pledge, at all hazards. Still I 
 didn't want to give up my liberty, and was arguing the 
 points over again, when Sally took me right aback so 
 strongly that I gave up, wrote a pledge, signed it, and 
 nailed it up over the mantelpiece, where it has got to 
 stay." 
 
 " I am most heartily glad to hear of your good resolu 
 tion," Mr. Jones said, grasping warmly the hand of Brad- 
 dock " and heartily ashamed of myself for having 
 tempted you, yesterday. Hereafter, I am resolved not to 
 offer liquor to any man who works for me. If my money 
 is not enough for him, he must go somewhere else. Well," 
 he continued "you have signed away your liberty, as 
 you called it. Do you feel any more a slave than you 
 did yesterday ?"
 
 320 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 " A slave ? No, indeed ! I 'm a free man now ! Yester 
 day I was such a slave to a debased appetite, that all my 
 good resolutions were like cobwebs. Now I can act 
 like an honest, rational man. I am in a state of freedom. 
 You ask me to drink. I say * no' yesterday I could not 
 say no, because I was not a free man. But now I am 
 free to choose what is right, and to reject what is wrong. 
 I don't care for all the grog-shops ana whiskey-bottles 
 from here to sun-down ! I 'm not afraid to go past Harry 
 Arnold's nor even to go in there and make a temper 
 ance speech, if necessary. Hurrah for freedom !" 
 
 It cannot be supposed that Jim's wife, after her many 
 sad disappointments, could feel altogether assured that he 
 would stand by his pledge, although she had more confi 
 dence in its power over him than in anything else, and 
 believed that it was the only thing that would save him, 
 if he could be saved at all. She was far more cheerful, 
 however, for her hope was stronger than it had ever been; 
 and went about her house with a far lighter step than 
 usual. 
 
 Towards evening, as the time began to approach for 
 his return, she proceeded, as she had done on the day 
 before, to make arrangements for his comfortable recep 
 tion. The little scene of preparation for supper, and 
 dressing up the children, was all acted over again, and 
 with a feeling of stronger confidence. Still, her heart 
 would beat at times oppressively, as a doubt would steal 
 over her mind. 
 
 At last, the sun was just sinking behind a distant hill. 
 It was the hour to expect him. The children were 
 gathered around her in the door, and her eyes were afar 
 off, eagerly watching to descry his well-known form in 
 the distance. As minute after minute passed away, and 
 the sun at length went down below the horizon, her heart 
 began to tremble. Still, though she strained her eyes, she 
 could see nothing of him, and now the twilight began to 
 fall, dimly around, throwing upon her oppressed heart a 
 deeper shadow than that which mantled, like a thin veil, 
 the distant hills and valleys. With a heavy sigh, she was 
 about returning into the house, when a slight noise within 
 caused her to turn quickly, and with a start. 
 
 "Back again, safe and sound, old girl!" greeted her
 
 JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 glad ear, as the form of her husband caught her eye, 
 coming in at the back door. 
 
 " O, Jim !" she exclaimed, her heart bounding with a 
 wild, happy pulsation. " How glad I am to see you !" 
 
 And she flung herself into his arms, giving way, as she 
 did so, to a gush of joyful tears. 
 
 "And I'm glad enough to see you, too, Sally! I've 
 thought about you and the children all day, and of how 
 much I have wronged you. But it 's all over now. That 
 pledge has done it !" pointing up as he spoke to his pledge 
 nailed over the mantelpiece. " Since I signed that, I 've 
 not had the first wish to touch the accursed thing that has 
 ruined rne. I 'm free, now, Sally ! Free to do as I please. 
 And that 's what I havn't been for a long time. As I told 
 Mr. Jones, I don't care now for all the grog-shops, whis 
 key-bottles, and Harry Arnolds, from here to sun-down." 
 
 " I told you it was all nonsense, Jim, about signing 
 away your liberty !" Sally said, smiling through her tears 
 of joy. 
 
 " Of course it was. I never was free before. But 
 now I feel as free as air. I can go in and come out and 
 care no more for the sight of a grog-shop, than for a 
 hay-stack. I can take care of my wife and children, and 
 be just as kind to them as I please. And that's what I 
 couldn't do before. Huzza for the pledge, say I ! 
 
 " Blister my feathers if ever I drink another drop of 
 Alcohol, or anything that will make drunk come, sick or 
 well, dead or alive !" 
 
 That evening Jim Braddock sat down to a good sup 
 per with a smiling wife, and three children, all cleanly 
 dressed, and looking as happy as they could be. The hus 
 band and father had not felt so light a heart bounding in 
 his bosom for years. He was free, and felt that he was 
 free to act as reason dictate 1, to work for and care 
 for his household treasures. 
 
 Nearly a year has passed, and Mr. James Braddock has 
 built himself a neat little frame house, which is comfort 
 ably furnished, and has attached to it a well-cultivated 
 garden. In his parlour, there hangs, over the mantel 
 piece, his original pledge, handsomely framed. Recently 
 in writing to a friend, he says 
 
 " You will ask, where did I get them 7" (his new house, 
 39
 
 322 
 
 JIM BRADDOGK'S PLEDGE. 
 
 furniture, &c.) " I '11 tell you, boy. These are part pay 
 ment for my liberty, that I signed away. Didn't I sell it 
 at a bargain 1 But this is not all. I 've got my shop back 
 again, with a good run of custom am ten years younger 
 than I was a year ago have got the happiest wife and 
 the smartest boy in all creation and don't care a snap 
 for anybody ! So now, S. come down here; bring your 
 wife, and all the responsibilities, and I'll tell you the 
 whole story but I can't write. Hurrah for slavery I 
 Good bye ! JIM BRADDOCK.*'
 
 THE FAIR TEMPTER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT, 
 
 " WHAT will you take, Haley ?" 
 
 " A glass of water." ; 
 
 " Nonsense ! Say, what will you take ?" 
 
 " A glass of water. I don't drink anything stronger." 
 
 " Not a teetotaller 1 Ha ! ha ! ha !" rejoined the young 
 man's companion, laughing in mingled mirth and ridicule. 
 
 " Yes, a teetotaller, if you please," replied the one call 
 ed Haley. " Or anything else you choose to denominate 
 me." 
 
 " You 're a member of a temperance society, then? ha! 
 ha!" 
 
 " No, I am not" 
 
 " Don't belong to the cold-water men ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " Then come along and drink with me ! Here, what 
 will you take I" 
 
 " Nothing at all, unless it be a glass of water. As I 
 have just said, I drink nothing stronger." 
 
 " What 's the reason ?" 
 
 " I feel as well indeed, a great deal better without it." 
 
 " That 's all nonsense ! Come, take a julep, or a brandy- 
 punch with me." 
 
 " No, Loring, I cannot." 
 
 " I shall take it as an offence, if you do not." 
 
 "I mean no offence, and shall be sorry, if you construe 
 into one an act not so intended. Drink if you wish to 
 drink, but leave me in freedom to decline tasting liquor ii 
 I choose." 
 
 " Well, you are a strange kind of a genius, Haley 
 but I believe I like you too well to get mad with you, 
 although I generally take a refusal to drink with one as 
 
 323
 
 324 FAIR TEMPTER; OR, 
 
 an insult, unless I know the person to have joined a tem 
 perance society, and then I should deem the insult on 
 rny part, were I to urge him to violate his pledge. But I 
 wonder you have never joined yourself to some of these 
 ultra reformers these teetotallers, as they call them 
 selves." 
 
 "I have never done so, and never intend doing so. 
 It is sufficient for me to decline drinking, because I do not 
 believe that stimulating beverages are good for the body 
 or mind. I act from principle in this matter, and, there 
 fore, want no external restraints." 
 
 " Then you are determined not to drink with me ?" 
 
 " O, yes, I will drink with you." 
 
 "Cold-water?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " One julep, and a glass of Adam's-ale," said Loring, 
 turning to the bar-keeper. 
 
 They were soon presented, glasses touched, heads bob 
 bed, and the contents of the two tumblers poured down 
 their respective gullets. 
 
 " It makes a chill go over me to see you drinking that 
 stuff," Loring said, with an expression of disgust on his 
 face. 
 
 " Every one to his taste, you know," was Haley's half- 
 indifferent response. 
 
 " You '11 be over to-night, I suppose ?" said a young 
 man, stepping up to him, as the two emerged from the 
 " Coffee"-house precious little coffee was ever seen 
 there. 
 
 " O, yes, of course." 
 
 " You 'd better not come." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Clara's got a bottle of champaign that she says she 's 
 going to make you taste this very night." 
 
 A slight shade flitted quickly over the face of Haley, 
 as the young man said this. But it was as quickly gone, 
 and he replied with a smile, 
 
 " Tell Clara it 's no use. I 'm an incorrigible cold- 
 water man." 
 
 " She Ml be too much for you." 
 
 " I 'm not afraid." 
 
 You 'd be, if you were as well acquainted with her
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 325 
 
 as I am. I never knew that girl to set her head about 
 anything in my life that she didn't accomplish it. And 
 she says that she will make you drink a glass of wine 
 with her, in spite of all your opposition." 
 
 " She '11 find herself foiled once in her life," was the 
 laughing reply; "and so you may as well tell her that 
 all her efforts will be in vain, and thus save further trou 
 ble." 
 
 " No, I won't, though. I '11 tell her to go on, while 1 
 stand off and look at the fun. I '11 bet on her, into the 
 bargain, for I know she '11 beat." 
 
 " So will I, two to one !" broke in Loring 
 
 " Don't be so certain of that." 
 
 " We '11 see," was the laughing response, and then the 
 young men separated. 
 
 Manley, the individual who had met Loring and Haley 
 at the coffee-house door, was the brother of Clara, and 
 Haley was her accepted lover. The latter had removed 
 to the city in which all the parties resided, some two 
 years before, from the east, and had commenced business 
 for himself. Nothing was known of his previous life, or 
 connections. But the pure gold of his character soon 
 became apparent, and guarantied him a reception into 
 good society. All who came into association with him, 
 were impressed in his favour. Steadily, however, during 
 that time, had he persisted in not tasting any kind of 
 stimulating drinks. All kinds of stimulating condiments 
 at table, were likewise avoided. The circle of acquaint 
 ances which had gradually formed around him, or into 
 which, rather, he had been introduced, was a wine and 
 brandy-drinking set of young men, and he was frequently 
 urged to partake with them ; but neither persuasion, ridi 
 cule, nor pretended anger, could, in the least, move him 
 from his fixed resolution. Such scenes as that just pre 
 sented, were of frequent occurrence, particularly with 
 recent acquaintances, as was the case with Loring. 
 
 Within a year he had been paying attention to Clara 
 Manley, a happy-hearted young creature, over whose 
 bead scarce eighteen bright summers had yet passed. 
 Esteem and admiration of her mind and person, had 
 gradually changed into a pure and permanent affection, 
 which was tenderly and truly reciprocated.
 
 326 FAIR TEMPTER; OR, 
 
 Wine, in the house of Mr. Manley, was used almost as 
 freely as water. It was, with brandy, an invariable ac 
 companiment of the dinner-table, and no evening passed 
 without its being served around. Haley's refusal to touch 
 it, was at first thought singular by Clara ; but she soon 
 ceased to observe the omission, and the servant soon 
 learned in no case to present him the decanter. George 
 Manley, however, could not tolerate Haley's temperate 
 habits, because he thought his abstinence a mere whim, 
 and bantered him upon it whenever occasion offered. 
 At last, he aroused Clara's mind into opposition, and 
 incited her to make an effort to induce her lover to drink. 
 
 "What's the use of my doing it, brother?" she asked, 
 when he first alluded to it. " His not drinking does no 
 harm to any one." 
 
 " If it don't, it makes him appear very singular. No 
 matter who is here no matter on what occasion, he 
 must adhere to his foolish resolution. People will begin 
 to think, after awhile, that he 's some reformed drunkard, 
 and is afraid to taste a drop of any kind of liquor." 
 
 " How can you talk so, George ?" Clara said, with a 
 half-offended air. 
 
 " So it will appear, Clara ; and you can't help it, unless 
 you laugh him out of his folly." 
 
 " I don't wish to say anything to him about it" 
 
 " You 're afraid." 
 
 "No, I am not, George." 
 
 " Yes, you are." 
 
 " What am I afraid of?" 
 
 " Why, you 're afraid that you won't succeed." 
 
 " Indeed, then, and I am not. A mere notion like that 
 I could easily prevail on him to give up. I should be 
 sorry, indeed, if I had not that much influence over 
 him." 
 
 " You '11 find it a pretty hard notion to beat out of him, 
 I can tell you. I 've seen half a dozen young men try for 
 an hour by all kinds of means to induce him to taste wine; 
 but it was no use. He was immovable." 
 
 " I don't care ; he couldn't refuse me, if I set myself 
 about it." 
 
 "He could, and he would, Clara." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it."
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 327 
 
 " Try him, then." 
 
 " I don't see any use in it. Let him enjoy his total- 
 abstinence if he wishes to." 
 
 " I knew you were afraid." 
 
 " Indeed, I am not, then." 
 
 " Yes, you are." 
 
 " It 's no such thing." 
 
 " Try him, then." 
 
 " I will, then, since it 's come to that." 
 
 " He '11 be too much for you." 
 
 " Don't flatter yourself. I '11 manage him." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " Why, I '11 insist on his taking a glass of that delight 
 ful champaign with me, which you sent home yester 
 day." 
 
 " Suppose he declines 1" 
 
 " I won't take his refusal. He shall take a glass with 
 me." 
 
 "We'll see, little sis'. I'll bet on Haley." And so 
 saying, the young man turned away laughing at the suc 
 cess of his scheme. 
 
 That evening, towards nine o'clock, as Haley sat con 
 versing with Clara, a servant entered the room as usual 
 with bottles and glasses. George Manley was promptly 
 on his feet, to cut the cork and " pop" the champaign, 
 which he did, while the servant stood just before Clara 
 and her lover. 
 
 " You must take a glass of this fine champaign with 
 me, Mr. Haley," the young tempter said, turning upon 
 him a most winning smile. 
 
 " Indeed, Clara " 
 
 " Not a word now. I shall take no refusal." 
 
 " I must be " 
 
 " Pour him out a glass, George." 
 
 And George filled two glasses, one of which Clara 
 lifted, with the sparkling liquor at the height of its effer 
 vescence. 
 
 " There 's the other ; take it quick, before it dies," she 
 said, holding her own glass near her lips. 
 
 " You must excuse me, Clara. I do not drink wine," 
 Mr. Haley said, as soon as he was permitted to speak, in
 
 328 PAIR TEMPTER; OR, 
 
 a tone and with a manner that settled the question at 
 once. 
 
 " Indeed, it is too bad, Mr. Haley !" Clara responded, 
 with a half-offended air, putting her untasted glass of 
 wine back upon the waiter, " to deny me so trifling a 
 request. I must say, that your refusal is very ungallant. 
 Whoever heard of a gentleman declining to take wine 
 with a lady ?" 
 
 " There certainly is an exception to the rule to-night, 
 Clara," the young man said. " Still, I can assure you, 
 that nothing ungallaat was meant. But that you know to 
 be out of the question. I could not be rude to any lady, 
 much less to you." 
 
 " 0, as to that, it 's easy to make fine speeches but 
 acts, you know, speak louder than words" Clara said, 
 half-laughing half-serious. 
 
 The servant had, by this time, passed on with the un 
 tasted wine; and, of course, no further effort could be 
 made towards driving the young man from his position. 
 His positive refusal to drink, however, under the circum 
 stances, very naturally disappointed Clara. He observed 
 the sudden revulsion of feeling that took place in her mind, 
 and it pained him very much. 
 
 As for her, she felt herself positively offended. She 
 had set her heart upon proving to her brother her power 
 over Haley, but had signally failed in the effort. He had 
 proved to her immovable in his singular position. 
 
 From that time, for many weeks, there was a coldness 
 between him and Clara. She did not receive him with 
 her accustomed cordiality; but seemed both hurt and 
 offended. To take a simple glass of champaign with her 
 was so small a request, involving, as she reasoned, no vio 
 lation of principle, that for him to refuse to do so, under 
 all the circumstances, was almost unpardonable. 
 
 Affection, however, at last triumphed over wounded 
 pride, but not until he had begun, seriously, to debate the 
 question of proposing to her a dissolution of the contract 
 existing between them. 
 
 Everything again went on smoothly enough, for there 
 was no further effort on the part of Clara to drive her 
 lover from his resolution. But she still entertained the
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 329 
 
 idea of doing so and still resolved that she would con 
 quer him. 
 
 At last the wedding-day was set, and both looked for 
 ward to its approach with feelings of pure delight. Their 
 friends, without an exception, approved the match ; and 
 well they might, for he was a man of known integrity, 
 fine intellect, and cultivated tastes; and she a young 
 woman in every way fitted to unite with him in marriage 
 bonds. ; 
 
 Finally came the long anticipated evening. Never 
 before was there assembled in the old mansion of Mr. 
 Manley a happier company than that which had gathered 
 to witness the marriage of his daughter, whose young 
 heart trembled in the fulness of its delight, as she uttered 
 the sealing words of her union with one who possessed 
 all her heart. 
 
 " May kind heaven bless you, my child !" murmured 
 the mother, as she pressed her lips to those of her happy 
 child. 
 
 " And make your life glide on as peacefully as a quiet 
 stream," added the father, kissing her in turn, scarcely 
 refraining, as he did so, from taking her in his arms and 
 folding her to his bosom. 
 
 Then came crowding upon her the sincere congratula 
 tions of friends. O, how happy she felt ! Joy seemed to 
 have reached a climax. The cup was so full, that a drop 
 more would have overflowed the brim. 
 
 A few minutes sufficed to restore again the order that 
 had reigned through the rooms, and the servants appeared 
 with the bride's cake. All eyes were upon the happy 
 couple. 
 
 " You won't refuse me now, James ?" the bride said, in 
 a low tone ; but with an appealing look, as she reached 
 out her hand and lifted a glass of wine. 
 
 There was a hesitation in the manner of Haley, and 
 Clara saw it. She knew that all eyes were upon them, 
 and she knew that all had observed her challenge. Her 
 pride was roused, and she could not bear the thought of 
 being refused her first request after marriage. 
 
 " Take it, James, for my sake, even if you only place 
 it to your lips without tasting it," she said, in a low, 
 hurried whisper. 
 
 40
 
 330 FAIR TEMPTERJ OR, 
 
 The young husband could not stand this. He took the 
 glass, while the heart of Clara bounded with an exulting 
 throb. Of course, having gone thus far, he had to go 
 through the form of drinking with her. In doing so, he 
 sipped but a few drops. These thrilled on the nerve of 
 taste with a sensation of exquisite pleasure. Involuntarily 
 he placed the glass to his lips again, and took a slight 
 draught. 
 
 Then a sudden chill passed through his frame as con 
 sciousness returned, and he would fain have dashed the glass 
 from him as a poisoning serpent that was preparing to 
 sting him, but for the company that crowded the rooms. 
 From this state he was aroused by the sweet voice of 
 his young wife, saying, in happy tones 
 
 " So it has not poisoned you, James." 
 
 He smiled an answer, but did not speak. The peculiar 
 expression of that smile, Clara remembered for many 
 years afterwards. 
 
 " Come ! you must empty your glass with me," she 
 said, in a moment after. " See ! you have scarcely tasted 
 it yet. Now " 
 
 And she raised her glass, and he did the same. When 
 he withdrew his own from his lips, it was empty. 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed Clara, in a low, triumphant tone. 
 " Now, isn't that delightful wine I" 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " Did you ever taste wine before, James ?" the bride 
 laughingly said 
 
 " O, yes, many a time. But none so exquisitely flavour 
 ed as this." 
 
 " Long abstinence has sweetened it to your taste." 
 
 " No doubt." 
 
 "Clara has been too much for you to-night, Haley," 
 George Manley said, coming up at this moment, and 
 laughing in great glee. 
 
 "He couldn't refuse me on such an occasion" the 
 bride gaily responded. "I set my heart on making him 
 drink wine with me on our wedding-night, and I have 
 succeeded." 
 
 "Are you sure he hasn't poured it slyly upon the 
 floor T' 
 
 " 0, yes ! I saw him take every drop. And what is
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 331 
 
 more; he smacked his lips, and said it was exquisitely 
 flavoured." 
 
 " Here comes the servant again," George said, at this 
 moment. " Come, James ! let me fill your glass again. 
 You must drink with me to-night. You 've never given 
 me that pleasure yet. Come! As well be hung for a 
 sheep as a lamb." 
 
 Thus importuned, Haley held up his glass which George 
 Manley filled to the brim. 
 
 " Health and happiness !" the young man said, bowing. 
 
 Haley bowed in return, placed the glass to his lips, and 
 took its contents at a draught. 
 
 " Bravely done ! Why, it seems to go down quite 
 naturally. You were not always a total-abstinence 
 man?" 
 
 " No, I was not." While a slight shadow flitted over 
 his face. 
 
 " Welcome back again, then, to a truly social, and con 
 vivial spirit ! After this, don't let me ever see you refuse 
 a generous glass." 
 
 " What ! An empty wine-glass in the hand of young 
 Mr. Incorrigible ! Upon my word !" ejaculated old Mr. 
 Manley, coming up at this moment. 
 
 " O, yes, pa ! I 've conquered him to-night ! He couldn't 
 refuse to take a glass of wine with me on this occasion !" 
 the daughter said, in great glee. 
 
 " He must take one with me, too, then." 
 
 " You must excuse me, indeed, sir," Haley replied 
 rallying himself, and bracing up into firmness his broken 
 and still wavering resolutions. 
 
 " Indeed, then, and I won't." 
 
 " O, no. Don't excuse him at all, pa ! He drank with 
 me, and then with brother, and now to refuse to drink 
 with you would be a downright shame." 
 
 " He has taken a glass with George, too, has he ? And 
 now wants to be excused when I ask him. Upon my 
 word ! Here, George, tell the servant to come over this 
 way." 
 
 The servant came, of course, in a moment or two, with 
 the wine. 
 
 " Fill up his glass, George," the father said. 
 
 Haley's glass was, of course, filled again. *
 
 332 FAIR TEMPTER; OR, 
 
 "Now, my boy! Here's a health to my children! 
 May this night's happiness be but as a drop to the ocean 
 of delight in reserve for them." Drinking. 
 
 "And here's to our father! May his children never 
 love him less than they do now." Drinking in turn. 
 Thank you, my boy !" 
 
 And thank you in return, for your kind wishes." 
 That wine didn't seem to taste unpleasantly, James 1" 
 
 ' O, no, sir. It is rich and generous." 
 ' How long is it since you tasted wine ?" 
 About three years." 
 ; Are you not fond of it ?" 
 
 ' O, yes. I like a good glass of wine." 
 Then what in the world has made you act so singu 
 larly about it ?" 
 
 " A mere whim of mine, I suppose you will call it. 
 And perhaps it was. I thought I was just as well with 
 out it." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Don't let me ever again hear of this fool 
 ishness." 
 
 And then the old man mingled with the happy com 
 pany. 
 
 " Come, James, you must drink with me, too," the mo 
 ther said, a little while afterward. 
 
 Haley did not seem unwilling, but turned off a glass of 
 wine with an air of real pleasure. 
 
 " You must drink with me, too," went through the 
 room. Every little while some one, with whom the 
 young man had on former occasions refused to drink, 
 finding out that he had been driven from his cold-water 
 resolutions, insisted upon taking a glass with him. Such 
 being the case, it is not to be wondered at that a remark 
 like this should be made before the passage of an hour. 
 
 " See \ As I live, Haley's getting lively !" 
 
 " I think that ' rich and generous wine' is beginning to 
 brighten you up a little," Mr. Manley said, about this 
 time, slapping his son-in-law familiarly upon the shoulder 1 
 
 " I feel very happy, sir," was Haley's reply. 
 
 " That 's right. This is a happy occasion." 
 
 " I never was so happy in my life ! I hardly know what 
 to do with myself. Come ! Won't you take some wine 
 with me. I drank with you a little while ago."
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 333 
 
 ** Certainly! Certainly! My boy! Or, perhaps you 
 would try a little brandy." 
 
 "No objection," said the young man. And then the 
 two went to the side-board, and each took a stiff glass of 
 brandy. 
 
 " That 's capital ! It makes me feel good !" ejaculated 
 Haley, as he set his empty glass down. 
 
 Cotillions were now formed, and the bride and groom 
 took the floor in the first set. Clara felt very proud of 
 her husband as she leaned upon his arm, waiting for the 
 music to begin, and glanced around upon her maiden 
 companions with a look of triumph. But she soon had 
 cause to abate her exultation, for when the music struck 
 up, and the dancers commenced their intricate movements, 
 she found that her husband blundered so as to throw all 
 into confusion. The reason of this instantly flashed upon 
 her mind, for she knew him to be a correct and graceful 
 dancer. He was too much intoxicated to dance 1 
 
 Her woman's pride caused her to make the effort to 
 guide him through the figures. But it was of no use. The 
 second attempt failed signally by his breaking the figures, 
 and reeling with a loud, drunken laugh, through and 
 through, and round and round the astonished group of 
 dancers, thrown thus suddenly into confusion. 
 
 Poor Clara, overwhelmed with mortification, retired to 
 a seat, while her husband continued his antics, ending 
 them finally with an Indian whoop, such as may often be 
 heard late at night in the streets, from a company of 
 drunken revellers, when he sought her out, and came 
 and took a seat by her side. 
 
 " Aint you happy to-night, Clara ! Aint you, old girl !" 
 he said, in a loud voice, striking her with his open hand 
 upon the shoulder. " I 'm so happy that I feel just ready 
 to jump out of my skin ! Whoop ! Now see how beauti 
 fully I can cut a pigeon's- wing." 
 
 And he sprang from his seat, and commenced describ 
 ing the elegant figure he had named, with industrious 
 energy, much to the amusement of one portion of the 
 company, but to the painful mortification of another. A 
 circle was soon formed around him, to witness his grace 
 ful movements, which strongly reminded those present
 
 334 PAIR TEMPTER; OR, 
 
 who had witnessed the performances, of" a corn-field 
 negro's Juba, or the double-shuffle. 
 
 " Come," old Mr. Manley said, interrupting the young 
 man in his evolutions, by laying his hand upon his arm. 
 "Come ! I want you a moment." 
 
 " Hel-lel-lel-lo, o-o, there! What's wanting? ha!" he 
 said, pausing, and then staggering forwards against Mr 
 Manley. " Who are you, sir?" 
 
 " For shame, sir !" the old man replied in a stern voice. 
 " Come with me, I wish to speak to you." 
 
 "Speak here, then, will you? I've no se-se-secrets. 
 I 'm open and above board ! Jim Haley's the boy that 
 knows what he 's about ! Who-o-o-oop ! Clear the track 
 there !" 
 
 And starting away from the old man, he ran two or 
 three paces, and then sprang clear over the head of a 
 young lady, frightening her almost out of her wits. 
 
 " There ! Who '11 match me that ? Jim Haley's the boy 
 what 's hard to beat ! Whoo-oo-oop, hurrah ! But where 's 
 Clara? Where 's my dear little wifie? Ah! there No, 
 that isn't her, neither. Wh-wh-where is the little jade ?" 
 
 The whole of this passed in a few moments, with all 
 the drunken gestures required to give it the fullest effect. 
 
 Poor Clara, at first mortified, when she saw what a 
 perfect madman her husband had become, was so shock 
 ed that her feelings overcame her, and she was carried 
 fainting from the room. O, how bitter was her moment 
 ary repentance of her blind folly, ere her bewildered 
 senses forsook her. 
 
 As for Haley, he grew worse and worse, until the 
 brandy which he continued to pour down, had completely 
 stupified him, when he was carried off to bed in a state 
 of drunken insensibility ; after which, the company re 
 tired in oppressive and embarrassed silence. 
 
 Sad and lonely was the bridal chamber that night, and 
 the couch of the young bride was wet with bitter, but un 
 availing tears. 
 
 On the next morning, those who first entered the room 
 where Haley had slept, found it empty. Towards the 
 middie of the day, a letter was left for Clara by an un 
 known hand. It ran thus : 
 
 " DEAR CLARA. For you are still dear to me, although
 
 WINE ON THE WEDDING-NIGHT. 335 
 
 you have robbed me of happiness for ever, and crushed 
 your own hopes with mine. For years before I came to 
 this place, I had been a slave to intoxication a slave held 
 in a fearful bondage. At last, I resolved to break loose 
 from my thraldom. One vigorous effort, and I was free. 
 There yet remained to me a small remnant of a wrecked 
 fortune. With this I abandoned my early home, and fixed 
 rny residence here, determined once more to be a man. 
 Temptations beset me on every hand; but while I touch 
 ed not, tasted not, handled not, I knew that I was safe. 
 But alas for the hour when you became my tempter ! O, 
 that the remembrance of it could be blotted from my 
 memory for ever ! When, for your sake, I raised that 
 fatal glass to my lips, and the single drop of wine that 
 touched them thrilled wildly through every nerve, I felt 
 that I was lost. Horrible were my sensations, but your 
 tempting voice lured me to sip the scarcely tasted poi 
 son; I did so, and my resolution was gone! All that 
 occurred after that is only dimly written on my memory. 
 But I was a madman. That I can realize. When drunk, 
 I have always acted the madman. And now we part for 
 ever llama proud man, and cannot remain in the scene 
 of my disgrace. My property I leave for you, and go I 
 know not, and care not, whither perhaps to die, un- 
 lamented, and unknown, and sink into a drunkard's grave. 
 Farewell !" 
 
 This letter bore neither name nor date. But they were 
 not needed. 
 
 Five years from that sorrowful morning Clara sat by a 
 window in her father's house, near the close of day, look 
 ing dreamily up into the serene and cloudless sky. Her 
 face was pale, and had a look of hopeless suffering. Five 
 years ! It seemed as if twenty must have passed over 
 her head, each burdening her with a heavy weight of 
 affliction. O, what a wreck did she present ! Five years 
 of such a life! Who can tell their history ? She was alone; 
 and sat with her head upon her hand, and her eyes fixed, 
 as if upon some object. But, evidently, no image touched 
 the nerve of vision. Presently her lips moved, and a few 
 mournful words were uttered aloud, almost involuntarily
 
 P AIE TEMPTER. 
 
 "0, that I knew where he was! 0, that I co'I but 
 find him, if alive !" 
 
 A slight noise startled her, and she turned <ickly. 
 Was it a vision? Or did her long-lost husbant stand 
 before her, the shadow of what he had been 1 
 
 " Clara ! Dear Clara !" 
 
 In a moment she was clinging to him with a tr< ibling, 
 eager, convulsive grasp. Tenderly did he fold h in his 
 arms, and press his lips to hers fervently. 
 
 Clara! Dear Clara!" 
 
 " My own dear husband !" was all she could ;er, as 
 she sank like a helpless child on his bosom. 
 
 For four years from the night of his weddin Haley 
 had been a common drunkard, with no power o r him 
 self. On the brink of the grave, he was rescue signed 
 a pledge of total abstinence, and set himself e erly to 
 work to elevate his condition. One year had si teed to 
 efface many sad tokens of his degradation, but ti 3 could 
 not restore the freshness to his cheek, nor the li[ i to his 
 eye. Then he returned and sought his bride, ho still 
 mourned him with an inconsolable grief. A fe months 
 produced a happy change in both. But they ca .ot look 
 back. Over the past they throw a veil, the iture is 
 theirs, and it is growing brighter and brighter. May its 
 clear sky never oe darkened!
 
 TH] ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 " Is tere a good fire in the little spare room Jane ?" said 
 Mr. W?e, a plain country farmer, coming into the kitchen 
 where Is good wife was busy preparing for supper. 
 
 " Oh ;es, I've made the room as comfortable as can be," 
 replied -rs. Wade ; " but I wish you would take up a good 
 armful c wood now, so that we wont have to disturb Mr. 
 , y going into the room after he gets here." 
 
 " If h should come this evening," remarked the husband. 
 " But it 5 getting late, and I am afraid he won't be here 
 oefore tl morning." 
 
 " Oh, guess he will be along soon. I have felt all day 
 as if he ere coming." 
 
 " The say he is a good man, and preaches most power 
 fully. A-. Jones heard him preach in New York at the 
 last confience, and tells me he never heard such a sermon 
 as he g; e them. It cut right and left, and his words 
 went hon: to every heart like arrows of conviction." 
 
 " I ho{ he will be here this evening," remarked the wife 
 as she pi some cakes in the oven. 
 
 " And ) do I." remarked Mr. Wade, as he turned away, 
 and wentmt to the wood pile for an armfull of wood for 
 the expetid minister's room. 
 
 It wasSaturday afternoon, and nearly sundown. Mr. 
 , "wo was expected to arrive, and for whose comfort 
 every prearation in their power to make, had been com 
 pleted byche family at whose house he was to stay, was 
 
 the new lesiding Elder of B District, in the New 
 
 Jersey Coference. Quarterly meeting was to be held on 
 
 the next cy, which was Sunday, when Mr. N was to 
 
 preach, ar administer the ordinances of the church. Being 
 his first vit to that part of the District, the preacher was 
 known tobut few, if any, of the members, and they all 
 
 41 337
 
 338 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 looked forward to his arrival with interest, and were pre 
 pared to welcome him with respect and affection. 
 
 The house of Mr. Wade was known as the ' minister's 
 home.' For years, in their movements through the circuit, 
 the preachers, as they came round to this part in the field 
 of their appointed labor, were welcomed by Brother and 
 Sister Wade, and the little spare chamber made comfort 
 able for their reception. It was felt by these honest- 
 hearted people, more a privilege than a duty, thus to share 
 their temporal blessings with the men of God who minis 
 tered to them in holy things. They had their weaknesses, 
 as we all have. One of their weaknesses consisted in a 
 firm belief that they were deeply imbued with the genuine 
 religion, and regarded things spiritual above all worldly 
 considerations. They were kind, good people, certainly, 
 but not as deeply read in the lore of their own hearts, not 
 as familiar with the secret springs of their own actions, as 
 all of us should desire to be. But this was hardly to be 
 wondered at, seeing that their position in the church was 
 rather elevated as compared with those around them, and 
 they were the subjects of little distinguishing marks, flatter 
 ing to the natural man. 
 
 While Mr. Wade was splitting a log at the wood-pile, 
 his thoughts on the new Presiding Elder, and his feelings 
 warm with the anticipated pleasure of meeting and enter 
 taining him, a man of common appearance approached 
 along the road, and when he came to where the farmer 
 was, stood still and looked at him until he had finished 
 cutting the log, and was preparing to lift the cleft pieces in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Rather a cold day this," said the man. 
 
 " Yes, rather," returned Mr. Wade, a little indifferently, 
 and in a voice meant to repulse the stranger, whose ap 
 pearance did not impress him very favorably. 
 
 " How far is it to D ?" inquired the man. 
 
 " Three miles," replied Mr. Wade, who having filled his 
 arms with wood, was beginning to move off towards the 
 house. 
 
 "So far!" said the man in a tone that was slightly 
 marked with hesitation. ' I thought it was but a little way. 
 from this." Then with an air of hesitation, and speaking
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 339 
 
 in a respectful voice, he added, " I would feel obliged if 
 you would let me go in and warm myself. I have walked 
 
 for two miles in the cold, and as D is still three miles 
 
 off, I shall be chilled through before I get there." 
 
 So modest and natural a request as this, Mr. Wade 
 could not refuse, and yet, in the way he said " Oh, 
 certainly" there was a manner that clearly betrayed his 
 wish that the man had passed on and preferred his request 
 somewhere else. Whether this was noticed or not, is of 
 no consequence ; the wayfarer on this assent to his request, 
 followed Mr. Wade into the house. 
 
 " Jane," said the farmer as he entered the house with the 
 stranger, and his voice was not as cordial as it might have 
 been ; " let this man warm himself by the kitchen fire. 
 
 He has to go all the way to D this evening and says 
 
 he is cold." 
 
 There is a kind of magnetic intelligence in the tones of 
 the voice. Mrs. Wade understood perfectly, by the way 
 in which this was said, that the husband did not feel 
 much sympathy for the stranger, and only yielded the 
 favor asked because he could not well refuse to grant it. 
 Her own observation did not correct the impression her 
 husband's manner had produced. The man's dress, though 
 neither dirty nor ragged, was not calculated to impress any 
 one very favorably. His hat was much worn, and the old 
 gray coat in which he was buttoned up to the chin, had 
 seen so much service that it was literally threadbare from 
 collar to skirt, and showed numerous patches, darns, and 
 other evidences of needlework, applied long since to its 
 original manufacture. His cow-hide boots, though whole, 
 had a coarse look ; and his long dark beard gave his face, 
 not a very prepossessing one at best, a no very attractive 
 aspect. 
 
 " You can sit down there," said Mrs. Wade, a little un 
 graciously, for she felt the presence of the man, just at 
 that particular juncture, as an intrusion ; and she pointed 
 to an old chair that stood near the fire-place, in front of 
 which was a large Dutch oven containing some of her best 
 
 cream short cakes, prepared especially for Mr. N , the 
 
 new Presiding Elder now momently expected. 
 
 " Thank you, Ma'am," returned the stranger, as he took
 
 340 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 the chair, and drew close up to the blazing hearth, and 
 removing his thick woolen gloves, spread his hands to 
 receive the genial warmth. 
 
 Nothing more was said by either the stranger or Mr. 
 Wade, for the space of three or four minutes. During 
 this time, the good house-wife passed in and out, once or 
 twice, busy as could be in looking after supper affairs. 
 The lid of the ample Dutch oven had been raised once or 
 twice, and both the eyes and nose of the traveller greeted 
 with a pleasant token of the good fare soon to be served 
 up in the family. He was no longer cold ; but the sight 
 and smell of the cakes and other good things in prepara 
 tion by the lady, awakened a sense of hunger, and made 
 it keenly felt. But, as the comfort of a little warmth had 
 been bestowed so reluctantly, he could not think of tres 
 passing on the farmer and his wife for a bite of supper, 
 and so commenced drawing on his heavy woolen gloves, 
 and buttoning up his old gray coat. While occupied in 
 doing this, Mr. Wade came into the kitchen, and said 
 
 "I'm afraid Jane, that the minister won't be along this 
 evening. It's after sun-down, and begins to grow duskish." 
 
 " He ought to have been here an hour ago," returned 
 Mrs. W., in a tone of disappointment. 
 
 " It's getting late, my friend, and D 's a good dis 
 tance ahead," remarked the farmer, after standing with his 
 back to the fire, and regarding for some moments the 
 stranger, who had taken off his gloves, and was slowly 
 unbuttoning his coat again. 
 
 " It's three miles you say ?" 
 
 " Yes, good three miles, if not more ; and it will be 
 dark in half an hour." 
 
 " What direction must I take ?" required the stranger. 
 
 " You keep along the road until you come to the meet 
 ing house on the top of the hill, half a mile beyond this, 
 and then you strike off to the right, and keep straight 
 on." 
 
 " What meeting house is it?" 
 
 " The D Methodist Meeting House." 
 
 " You are expecting the minister, I think you just now 
 said ?" 
 
 "Yes. Mr. N , our new Presiding Elder, is to
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 341 
 
 preach to-morrow, and he was to have been here ibis 
 afternoon. 3 ' 
 
 " He is to stay with you ?" 
 
 " Certainly he is. The ministers all stay at my house." 
 
 The man got up, and went to the door and looked out. 
 
 " Couldn't you give me a little something to eat before 
 I go," he said, returning. "I havn't tasted food since this 
 morning, and feel a little faint." 
 
 " Jane, can't you give him some cold meat and bread ?" 
 Mr. Wade turned to his wife, and she answered, just a 
 little fretfully, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" and going to the 
 cupboard, brought out a dish containing a piece of cold 
 fat bacon that had been boiled with cabbage for dinner, 
 and half a loaf of bread, which she placed on the kitchen 
 table and told the man to help himself. The stranger did 
 not wait for another invitation ; but set to work in good 
 earnest upon the bread and bacon, while the farmer stood 
 with his hands behind him, and his back to the fire, whist 
 ling the air of " Auld Lang Syne," while he mentally re 
 peated the words of the hymn of " When I can read my 
 title clear," and wished that his visitor would make haste 
 and get through with his supper. The latter, after eating 
 for a short time with the air of a man whose appetite was 
 keen, began to discuss the meat and bread with more 
 deliberation, and occasionally to ask a question, or make a 
 remark, the replies to which were not very gracious, 
 although Mr. Wade forced himself to be as polite as he 
 could be. 
 
 The homely meal at length concluded, the man buttoned 
 up his old coat and drew on his coarse woolen gloves again, 
 and thanking Mr. and Mrs. Wade for their hospitality, 
 opened the door and looked out. It was quite dark, for 
 there was no moon', and the sky was veiled in clouds. 
 The wind rushed into his face, cold and piercing. For 
 a moment or two, he stood with his hand upon the door, 
 and then closing it he turned back into the house, and 
 said to the farmer 
 
 " You say it is still three miles to D ?" 
 
 " I do," said Mr. Wade coldly. " I said so to you 
 when you first stopped, and you ought to have pushed on
 
 342 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 like a prudent man. You could have reached there before 
 it was quite dark." 
 
 "But I was cold and hungry, and might have fainted 
 by the way." 
 
 The manner of saying this touched the farmer's feelings 
 a little, and caused him to look more narrowly into the 
 stranger's face than he had yet done. But he saw nothing 
 more than he had already seen. 
 
 " You have warmed and fed me, for which I am thank 
 ful. Will you not bestow another act of kindness upon 
 one who is in a strange place, and if he goes out in the 
 darkness may lose himself and perish in the cold ?" 
 
 The peculiar form in which this request w r as made, and 
 the tone in which it was uttered, put it almost out of the 
 power of the farmer to say no. 
 
 " Go in there and sit down," he answed, pointing to 
 the kitchen, " and I will see my wife, and hear what she 
 has to say." 
 
 And Mr. Wade went into the parlor w r here the supper 
 table stood, covered with a snow-white cloth, and display 
 ing his wife's set of bluesprigged china, that was only 
 brought out on special occasions. Two tall mould candles 
 were burning thereon, and on the hearth blazed a cheer 
 ful hickory fire. 
 
 " Hasn't that old fellow gone yet ?" asked Mrs. Wade. 
 She had heard his voice as he returned from the door. 
 
 "No. And what do you suppose? He wants us to 
 let him stay all night." 
 
 tl Indeed, and we'll do no such thing ! We can't have 
 the likes of him in the house, no how. Where could he 
 sleep ?" 
 
 " Not in the best room, even if Mr. N shouldn't 
 
 come." 
 
 " No, indeed !" 
 
 " But I really don't see, Jane how we can turn him out 
 of doors. He doesn't look like a very strong man, and 
 it's dark and cold, and full three miles to D ." 
 
 "It's too much! He ought to have gone on while he 
 had daylight, and not lingered here as he did until it got 
 dark."
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 343 
 
 " We can't turn him out of doors, Jane ; and it's no 
 use to think of it. He'll have to stay now." 
 
 " But what can we do with him ?'' 
 
 " He seems like a decent man, at least ; and don't look 
 as if he had anything bad about him. We might make him 
 a bed on the floor somewhere." 
 
 " I wish he had been to Guinea before he came here," 
 said Mrs. Wade, fretfully. The disappointment, the con 
 viction that Mr. N would not arrive, and the intrusion 
 
 of so unwelcome a visitor as the stranger, completely 
 unhinged her mind. 
 
 " Oh, well, Jane," replied her husband in a soothing 
 voice, " never mind. We must make the best of it. Poor 
 man ! He came to us tired and hungry, and we have 
 warmed him and fed him. He now asks shelter for the 
 night, and we must not refuse him, nor grant his request 
 in a complaining reluctant spirit. You know what the 
 Bible says about entertaining angels unawares.'' 
 
 " Angels! Did you ever see an angel look like him ?" 
 
 " Having never seen an angel," said the husband smil 
 ing, "I am unable to speak as to their appearance." 
 
 This had the effect to call an answering smile to the 
 face of Mrs. Wade, and a better feeling to her heart. And 
 it was finally agreed between them, that the man, as he 
 seemed like a decent kind of a person, should be per 
 mitted to occupy the minister's room, if that individual 
 did not arrive, an event to which they both now looked 
 with but small expectancy. If he did come, why the man 
 would have put up with poorer accommodations. 
 
 When Mr. Wade returned to the kitchen where the 
 stranger had seated himself before the fire, he informed 
 him, that they had decided to let him stay all night. The 
 man expressed in a few words his grateful sense of their 
 kindness, and then became silent and thoughtful. Soon 
 
 after, the farmer's wife, giving up all hopes of Mr. N 's 
 
 arrival, had supper taken up, which consisted of coffee, 
 warm cream short cakes, and sweet cakes, broiled ham, 
 and broiled chicken. After all was on the table, a short 
 conference was held, as to whether it would do not to in 
 vite the stranger to take supper. It was true, they had 
 given him as much bread and bacon as he could eat ; but
 
 344 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 then, as long as he was going to stay all night, it looked 
 too inhospitable to sit down to the table and not ask him 
 to join them. So, making a virtue of necessity, he was 
 kindly asked to come in to supper, an invitation which 
 he did not decline. Grace was said over the meal by Mr. 
 Wade, and then the coffee was poured out, the bread 
 helped, and the meat served. 
 
 There was a fine little boy of some five or six years old 
 at the table, who had been brightened up, and dressed in 
 his best, in order to grace the minister's reception. Charley 
 w r as full of talk, and the parents felt a natural pride in 
 showing him off, even before their humble guest, who 
 noticed him particularly, although he had not much to say. 
 
 " Come, Charley," said Mr. Wade, after the meal was 
 over, and he sat leaning back in his chair, "can't you 
 repeat the pretty hymn mamma learned you last Sunday ?" 
 
 Charley started off, without further invitation, and re 
 peated, very accurately, two or three verses of a new 
 camp-meeting hymn, that was just then very popular. 
 
 " Now let us hear you say the Commandments, Charley," 
 spoke up the mother, well pleased at her child's perfor 
 mance. And Charley repeated them with only the aid of 
 a little prompting. 
 
 " How many commandments are there ?" asked the 
 father. 
 
 The child hesitated, and then looking up at the stranger, 
 near whom he sat, said, innocently, 
 
 " How many are there ?" 
 
 The man thought for some moments, and said, as if in 
 doubt, 
 
 " Eleven, are there not ?" 
 
 " Eleven !" ejaculated Mrs. Wade, looking towards the 
 man in unfeigned surprise. 
 
 "Eleven!" said her husband, with more of rebuke 
 than astonishment in his voice. " Is it possible, sir, that 
 you do not know how many Commandments there are ? 
 How many are there, Charley ? Come ! Tell me ; you 
 know, of course." 
 
 " Ten," said the child. 
 
 " Right, my son," returned Mr. Wade, with a smile of 
 approval. "Pvight. Why, there isn't a child of his age
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 345 
 
 within ten miles who can't tell you that there are ten Com 
 mandraents. " Did you never read the Bible, sir ?" address 
 ing the stranger. 
 
 " When I was a little boy, I used to read in it some 
 times. But I'm sure I thought there were eleven Com- 
 
 f o 
 
 mandments. Are you not mistaken about there being only 
 ten ?" 
 
 Sister Wade lifted her hands in unfeigned astonishment, 
 and exclaimed 
 
 " Could any one believe it ? Such ignorance of the 
 Bible!" 
 
 Mr. Wade did not reply, but he arose, and going to one 
 corner of the room, where the Good Book lay upon a small 
 mahogany stand, brought it to the table, and pushing away 
 his plate, cup and saucer, laid the volume before him, and 
 opened that portion in which the Commandments are re 
 corded. 
 
 " There !" he said, placing his finger upon a proof of 
 the man's error. " There! Look for yourself!" 
 
 The man came round 'from his side of the table, and 
 looked over the farmer's shoulder. 
 
 " There ! Ten ; d'ye see !" 
 
 "Yes, it does say ten," replied the man. " And yet it 
 seems to me there are eleven. I'm sure I have always 
 thought so." 
 
 "Doesn't it say ten, here ?" inquired Mr. Wade, with 
 marked impatience in his voice. 
 
 " It does certainly." 
 
 " Well, what more do you want ? Can't you believe 
 the Bible ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes I believe in the Bible, and yet, somehow, it 
 strikes me that there must be eleven Commandments. 
 Hasn't one been added somew r here else?" 
 
 Now this was too much for Brother and Sister Wade to 
 bear. Such ignorance on sacred matters they felt to be 
 unpardonable. A long lecture followed, in which the 
 man was scolded, admonished and threatened with Divine 
 indignation. At its close, he modestly asked if he might 
 have the Bible to read for an hour or two, before retiring 
 to rest. This request was granted with more pleasure 
 than any of the preceding ones. Shortly after supper the 
 
 42
 
 346 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 man was conducted to the little spare room accompanied 
 by the Bible. Before leaving him alone, Mr. Wade felt 
 it his duty to exhort him on spiritual things, and he did so 
 most earnestly for ten or fifteen minutes. But he could not 
 see that his words made much impression, and he finally 
 left his guest, lamenting his ignorance and obduracy. 
 
 In the morning, the man came down, and meeting Mr. 
 Wade, asked him if he would be so kind as to lend him 
 a razor, that he might remove his beard, which did not 
 give his face a very attractive aspect. His request was 
 complied with. 
 
 " We will have family prayer in about ten minutes," 
 said Mr. Wade, as he handed him a razor and a shaving- 
 box. 
 
 In ten minutes the man appeared and behaved himself 
 with due propriety at family worship. After breakfast he 
 thanked the farmer and his wife for their hospitality, and 
 departing, went on his journey. 
 
 Ten o'clock came, and Mr. N had not yet arrived. 
 
 So Mr. and Mrs. Wade started off for the meeting house, 
 not doubting that they would find him there. But they 
 were disappointed. A goodly number of people were in 
 side the meeting house, and a goodly number outside, but 
 the minister had not yet arrived. 
 
 " Where is Mr. N ?" inquired a dozen voices, as a 
 
 little crowd gathered around the farmer. 
 
 " He hasn't come yet. Something has detained him. 
 But I still look for him ; indeed, I fully expected to find 
 him here." 
 
 The day was cold, and Mr. Wade, after becoming 
 thoroughly chilled, concluded to go in, and keep a look-out 
 for the minister from the window near which he usually 
 sat. Others, from the same cause, followed his example, 
 and the little meeting house was soon filled, and still one 
 after another came dropping in. The farmer, who turned 
 towards the door each time.it opened, was a little sur 
 prised to see his guest of the previous night enter, and 
 come slowly along the aisle, looking from side to side as 
 if in search of a vacant seat, very few of which were now 
 left. Still advancing, he finally passed within the little
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 347 
 
 enclosed altar, and ascending to the pulpit, took off his 
 old gray overcoat and sat down. 
 
 By this time Mr. Wade was by his side, and with his 
 hand upon his arm. 
 
 " You mustn't sit here. Come down, and I'll show you 
 a seat," he said in an excited tone. 
 
 " Thank you," returned the man, in a composed tone. 
 "It is very comfortable here." 
 
 " But you are in the pulpit ! You are in the pulpit, 
 sir!" 
 
 " Oh, never mind. It is very comfortable here." And 
 the man remained immovable. 
 
 Mr. Wade, feeling much embarrassed, turned away, 
 and went down, intending to get a brother official in the 
 church to assist him in making a forcible ejection of the 
 man from the place he was desecrating. Immediately 
 upon his doing so, however, the man arose, and standing 
 up at the desk, opened the hymn book. His voice thrilled 
 to the very finger ends of Brother Wade, as, in a distinct 
 and impressive manner, he gave out the hymn beginning 
 
 " Help us to help each other, Lord, 
 
 Each other's cross to bear ; 
 Let each his friendly aid afford, 
 
 And feel a brother's care." 
 
 The congregation arose after the stranger had read the 
 entire hymn, and he then repeated the two first lines for 
 them to sing. Brother Wade usually started the tune. 
 He tried it this time, but went off on a long metre tune. 
 Discovering his mistake at the second word, he balked, 
 and tried it again, but now he stumbled on short metre 
 A musical brother here came to his aid, and let off with 
 an air that suited the measure in which the hymn was 
 written. After the singing, the congregation kneeled, and 
 the minister, for no one now doubted his real character, 
 addressed the Throne of Grace with much fervor and 
 eloquence. The reading of a chapter from the Bible suc 
 ceeded to these exercises. Then there was a deep pause 
 throughout the room in anticipation of the text, which the 
 preacher prepared to announce. 
 
 Brother Wade looked pale, and his hands and knees 
 trembled ; Sister Wade's face was like crimson, and her
 
 348 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 heart was beating so loud that she wondered whether the 
 sound was not heard by the sister who sat beside her. 
 There was a breathless silence. The dropping of a pin 
 might almost have been heard. Then the fine, emphatic 
 tones of the preacher filled the crowded room. 
 
 " A new commandment I give unto you, that you love 
 one another." 
 
 Brother Wade had bent to listen, but he now sank back 
 in his seat. This was the ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT ! 
 
 The sermon was deeply searching, yet affectionate and 
 impressive. The preacher uttered nothing that could in 
 the least wound the brother and sister of whose hospi 
 tality he had partaken, but he said much that smote upon 
 their hearts, and made them painfully conscious that they 
 had not shown as much kindness to the stranger as he had 
 been entitled to receive on the broad principles of 
 humanity. But they suffered most from mortification of 
 feeling. To think that they should have treated the Pre 
 siding Elder of the District after such a fashion, was 
 deeply humiliating; and the idea of the whole affair get 
 ting abroad, interfered sadly with their devotional feelings 
 throughout the whole period of the service. 
 
 At last the sermon was over, the ordinance adminis 
 tered, and the benediction pronounced. Brother Wade 
 did not know what it was best for him now to do. He 
 
 never was more at a loss in his life. Mr. N descended 
 
 from the pulpit, but he did not step forward to meet him. 
 How could he do that ? Others gathered around and 
 shook hands with him, but he still lingered and held back. 
 
 " Where is Brother Wade ?" he at length heard asked. 
 It was in the voice of the minister. 
 
 " Here he is," said two or three, opening the way to 
 where the farmer stood. 
 
 The preacher advanced, and extending his hand, said - 
 
 " How do you do, Brother Wade ? I am glad to see 
 you. And where is Sister Wade?" 
 
 Sister Wade was brought forward, and the preacher 
 shook hands with them heartily, while his face was lit up 
 with smiles. 
 
 "I believe I am to find my home with you?" he said, 
 as if that were a matter understood and settled.
 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT. 349 
 
 Before the still embarrassed brother and sister could 
 reply, some one asked 
 
 *' How came you to be detained so late ? You were 
 expected last night. And where is Brother R ?" 
 
 " Brother R is sick," replied Mr. N , " and so 
 
 I had to corne alone. Five miles from this my horse gave 
 out, and I had to come the rest of the way on foot. But 
 I became so cold and weary that I found it necessary to 
 ask a farmer not far away from here to give me a night's 
 lodging, which he was kind enough to do. I thought I 
 was still three miles off, but it happened that I was much 
 nearer my journey's end than I had supposed." 
 
 This explanation was satisfactory to all parties, and in 
 due time the congregation dispersed ; and the Presiding 
 Elder went home with Brother and Sister Wade. How 
 the matter was settled between them, we do not know. 
 One thing is certain, however, the story which we have 
 related did not get out for some years after the worthy 
 brother and sister had rested from their labors, and it was 
 then related by Mr. N himself, who was rather ex- 
 centric in his character, and, like numbers of his minis 
 terial brethren, fond of a good joke, and given to relat 
 ing good stories.
 
 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 " FANNY! I've but one word more to say on the subject. 
 If you marry that fellow, I'll have nothing to do with you. 
 I've said it ; and you may be assured that I'll adhere to 
 my determination." 
 
 Thus spoke, with a frowning brow and a stern voice, 
 the father of Fanny Crawford, while the maiden sat with 
 eyes bent upon the floor. 
 
 " He's a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow," resumed 
 the father ; " and if you marry him, you wed a life of 
 misery. Don't come back to me, for I will disown you 
 the day you take his name. I've said it, and my decision 
 is unalterable." 
 
 Still Fanny made no answer, but sat like a statue. 
 " Lay to heart what I have said, and make your elec 
 tion, girl." And with these words, Mr. Crawford retired 
 from the presence of his daughter. 
 
 On that evening Fanny Crawford left her father's house, 
 and was secretly married to a young man named Logan, 
 whom, spite of all his faults, she tenderly loved. 
 
 When this fact became known to Mr. Crawford, he an 
 grily repeated his threat of utterly disowning his child ; 
 and he meant what he said for he was a man of stem 
 purpose and unbending will. When trusting to the love 
 she believed him to bear for her, Fanny ventured home, 
 she was rudely repulsed, and told that she no longer had 
 a father. These cruel words fell upon her heart and ever 
 after rested there, an oppressive weight. 
 
 Logan was a young mechanic, with a good trade and 
 the ability to earn a comfortable living. But Mr. Craw 
 ford's objection to him was well founded, and it would 
 hav.e been better for Fanny if she had permitted it to in 
 fluence her ; for the young man was idle in his habits, and 
 Mr. Crawford too clearly saw that idleness would lead to 
 
 350
 
 THE IRON WILL. 351 
 
 dissipation. The father had hoped that his threat to dis 
 own his child would have deterred her from taking the step 
 he so strongly disapproved. He had, in fact, made this 
 threat as a last effort to save her from a union that would, 
 inevitably, lead to unhappiness. But having made it, his 
 stubborn and offended pride caused him to adhere with 
 stern inflexibility to his word. 
 
 When Fanny went from under her father's roof, the old 
 man was left alone. The mother of his only child had 
 been many years dead. For her father's sake, as well as 
 for her own, did Fanny wish to return. She loved her 
 parents with a most earnest affection, and thought of him 
 as sitting gloomy and companionless in that home so long 
 made light and cheerful by her voice and smile. Hours 
 and hours would she lie awake at night, thinking of her 
 father, and weeping for the estrangement of his heart from 
 her. Still there was in her bosom an ever living hope that 
 he would relent. And to this she clung, though he passed 
 her in the street without looking at her, and steadily 
 denied her admission, when, in the hope of some change 
 in his stern purpose, she would go to his house and seek 
 to gain an entrance. 
 
 As the father had predicted, Logan added, in the course 
 of a year or two, dissipation to idle habits and neglect of 
 his wife to both. They had gone to housekeeping in a 
 small way, when first married, and had lived comfortably 
 enough for some time. But Logan did not like work, and 
 made every excuse he could find to take a holiday, or be 
 absent from the shop. The effect of this was, an insuffi 
 cient income. Debt came with its mortifying and harras- 
 sing accompaniments, and furniture had to be sold to pay 
 those who were not disposed to wait. With two little 
 children, Fanny was removed by her husband into a cheap 
 boarding-house, after their things were taken and sold. 
 The company into which she was here thrown, was far 
 from being agreeable ; but this would have been no source 
 of unhappiness in itself. Cheerfully would she have 
 breathed the uncongenial atmosphere, if there had been 
 nothing in the conduct of her husband to awaken feelings 
 of anxiety. But, alas! there was much to create unhap 
 piness here. Idle days were more frequent ; and the conse- 

 
 352 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 quences of idle days more and more serious. From his 
 work, he would come home sober and cheerful ; but after 
 spending a day in idle company, or in the woods gunning, 
 a sport of which he was fond, he would meet his wife 
 with a sullen, dissatisfied aspect, and, too often, in a state 
 little above intoxication. 
 
 "I'm affraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, 
 friend Crawford," said a plain-spoken Quaker to the father 
 of Mrs. Logan, after the young man's habits began, to 
 show themselves too plainly in his appearance. 
 
 Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely 
 together. 
 
 " Has thee seen young Logan lately ?" 
 
 " I don't know the young man," replied Mr. Crawford, 
 with an impatient motion of his head. 
 
 " Don't know thy own son-in-law ! The husband of 
 thy daughter !" 
 
 " I have no son-in-law ! No daughter !" said Crawford, 
 with stern emphasis. 
 
 " Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend 
 Crawford." 
 
 "But I have disowned her. I forewarned her of the 
 consequences if she married that young man. I told her 
 that I would cast her off for ever ; and I have done it." 
 
 "But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong." 
 
 " I've said it, and I'll stick to it." 
 
 " But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford," repeated 
 the Quaker. 
 
 " Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the 
 act. I gave her fair warning ; but she took her own course, 
 and now she must abide the consequences. When I say 
 a thing, I mean it ; I never eat my words." 
 
 " Friend Crawford," said the Quaker, in a steady voice 
 and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he 
 addressed. " Thee was wrong to say what thee did. Thee 
 had no right to cast off thy child. I saw her to-day, 
 passing slowly along the street. Her dress was thin and 
 faded ; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face. 
 Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that counte 
 nance. Friend Crawford ! she is thy child still. Thee 
 cannot disown her."
 
 THE IRON WILL. 353 
 
 " I never change," replied the resolute father. 
 
 " She is the child of thy beloved wife, now in heaven, 
 friend Crawford." 
 
 " Good morning !" and Crawford turned and walked 
 away. 
 
 " Rash words are bad enough," said the Quaker to 
 himself, " but how much worse is it to abide by rash 
 words, after there has been time for reflection and re 
 pentance !" 
 
 Crawford was troubled by what the Quaker said ; but 
 more troubled by what he saw a few minutes afterwards, as 
 he walked along the street, in the person of his daughter's 
 husband. He met the young man, supported by two 
 others so much intoxicated that he could not stand alone. 
 And in this state he was going home to his wife to 
 Fanny ! 
 
 The father clenched his hands, set his teeth firmly to 
 gether, muttered an imprecation upon the head of Logan, 
 and quickened his pace homeward. Try as he would, he 
 could not shut out from his mind the pale, faded counte 
 nance of his child, as described by the Quaker, nor help 
 feeling an inward shudder at the thought of what she 
 must suffer on meeting her husband in such a state. 
 
 " She has only herself to blame," he said, as he strug 
 gled with his feelings. " I forewarned her ; I gave her to 
 understand clearly what she had to expect. My word is 
 passed. I have said it ; and that ends the matter. I am 
 no childish trifler. What I say, I mean." 
 
 Logan had been from home all day, and, what was 
 worse, had not been, as his wife was well aware, at the 
 shop for a week. The woman with whom they were 
 ooarding, came into her room during the afternoon, and, 
 after some hesitation and embarrassment, said 
 
 " I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan that I shall want 
 you to give up your room, after this week. You know I 
 have had no money from you for nearly a month, and, 
 from the way your husband goes on, I see little prospect 
 of being paid any thing more. If I was able, for your 
 sake, I would not say a word. But I am not, Mrs. LogaE, 
 and therefore must, in justice to myself and family, ri 
 quire you to get another boarding-house." 
 
 43
 
 354 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 Mrs. Logan answered only with tears. The woman tried 
 to soften what she had said, and then went away. 
 
 Not long after this, Logan came stumbling up the stairs, 
 and opening the door of his room, staggered in and threw 
 himself heavily upon the bed. Fanny looked at him a 
 few moments, and then crouching down, and covering her 
 face with her hands, wept long and bitterly. She felt 
 crushed and powerless. Cast off by her father, wronged 
 by her husband, destitute and about to be thrust from the 
 poor home into which she had shrunk : faint and weary, it 
 seemed as if hope were gone forever. While she suffered 
 thus, Logan lay in a drunken sleep. Arousing herself at 
 last, she removed his boots and coat, drew a pillow under 
 his head, and threw a coverlet over him. She then sat 
 down and wept again. The tea bell rung, but she did 
 not go to the table. Half an hour afterwards, the land 
 lady came to the door and kindly inquired if she would 
 not have some food sent up to her room. 
 
 " Only a little bread and milk for Henry," was replied- 
 
 " Let me send you a cup of tea," urged the woman. 
 
 "No, thank you. I don't wish any thing to night." 
 
 The woman went away, feeling troubled. From her 
 heart she pitied the suffering young creature, and it had 
 cost her a painful struggle to do what she had done. But 
 the pressing nature of her own circumstances required 
 her to be rigidly just. Notwithstanding Mrs. Logan had 
 declined having any thing, she sent her a cup of tea and 
 something to eat. But they remained untasted. 
 
 On the next morning Logan was sober, and his wife 
 informed him of the notice which their landlady had given. 
 He was angry, and used harsh language towards the 
 woman. Fanny defended her, and had the harsh language 
 transferred to her own head. 
 
 The young man appeared as usual at the breakfast table, 
 but Fanny had no appetite for food, and did not go down. 
 After breakfast, Logan went to the shop, intending to go to 
 work ; but found his place supplied by another journey 
 man, and himself thrown out of employment, with but a 
 single dollar in his pocket, a month's boarding due, and 
 his family in need of almost every comfort. From the 
 shop he went to a tavern, took a glass of liquor, and sat
 
 THE IRON WILL. 355 
 
 down to look over the newspapers, and think what he 
 should do. There he met an idle journeyman, who, 
 like himself, had lost his situation. A fellow feeling made 
 them communicative and confidential. 
 
 " If I was only a single man," said Logan, " I wouldn't 
 care, I could easily shift for myself." 
 
 " Wife and children ! Yes, there's the rub," returned 
 the companion. "A journeyman mechanic is a fool to get 
 married." 
 
 " Then you and I are both fools," said Logan. 
 
 " No doubt of it. I came to that conclusion, in regard 
 to myself, long and long ago. Sick wife, hungry chil 
 dren, and four or five backs to cover; no wonder a poor 
 man's nose is ever on the grindstone. For my part, I am 
 sick of it. When I was a single man, I could go where 
 I pleased, and do what I pleased ; and I always had 
 money in my pocket. Now I am tied down to one place, 
 and grumbled at eternally ; and if you were to shake me 
 from here to the Navy Yard, you wouldn't get a sixpence 
 out of rrie. The fact is, I'm sick of it." 
 
 " So am I. But what is to be done ? I don't believe 
 .1 can get work in town." 
 
 "I know you can't. But there is plenty of work and 
 good wages to be had in Charleston or New Orleans." 
 
 Logan did not reply ; but looked intently into his com 
 panion's face. 
 
 " I'm sure my wife would be a great deal better off if 
 I were to clear out and leave her. She has plenty of 
 friends, and they'll not see her want." 
 
 Logan still looked at his fellow journeyman. 
 
 " And your wife would be taken back under her father's 
 roof, where there is enough and to spare. Of course she 
 would be happier than she is now." 
 
 " No doubt of that. The old rascal has treated her 
 shabbily enough. But I am well satisfied that if I were 
 out of the way he would gladly receive her back again." 
 
 " Of this there can be no question. So, it is clear, that 
 with our insufficient incomes, our presence is a curse 
 rather than a blessing to our families." 
 
 Logan readily admitted this to be true. His companion
 
 356 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 then drew a newspaper towards him, and after running his 
 eyes over it for a few moments, read : 
 
 " This day, at twelve o'clock, the copper fastened brig 
 Emily, for Charleston. For freight or passage, apply on 
 board." 
 
 " There's a chance for us," he said, as he finished read 
 ing the advertisement. " Let us go down and see if they 
 won't let us work our passage out." 
 
 Logan sat thoughtful a moment, and than said, as he 
 arose to his feet, 
 
 " Agreed. It'll be the best thing for us, as well as for 
 our families." 
 
 When the Emily sailed, at twelve o'clock, the two men 
 were on board. 
 
 Days came and passed, until the heart of Mrs. Logan 
 grew sick with anxiety, fear and suspense. No word was 
 received from her absent husband. She went to his old 
 employer, and learned that he had been discharged ; but 
 she could find no one who had heard of him since that 
 time. Left thus alone, with two little children, and no 
 apparent means of support, Mrs. Logan, when she became 
 at length clearly satisfied that he for whom she had given 
 up every thing, had heartlessly abandoned her, felt as if 
 there was no hope for her in the world. 
 
 " Go to your father by all means," urged the woman 
 with whom she was still boarding. " Now that your hus 
 band has gone, he will receive you." 
 
 "I cannot," was Fanny's reply. 
 
 " But what will you do?" asked the woman. 
 
 " Work for my children," she replied, arousing herself 
 and speaking with some resolution. "I have hands to 
 work, and I am willing to work." 
 
 " Much better go home to your father," said the woman. 
 
 " That is impossible. He has disowned me. Has 
 ceased to love me or care for me. I cannot go to him 
 again ; for I could not bear, as I am now, another harsh 
 repulse. No no I will work with my own hands. God 
 will help me to provide for my children." 
 
 In this spirit the almost heart-broken young woman for 
 whom the boarding-house keeper felt more than a common 
 interest an interest that would not let her thrust her out
 
 THE IRON WILL. 357 
 
 from the only place she could call her home sought for 
 work and was fortunate enough to obtain sewing from two 
 or three families, and was thus enabled to pay a light 
 board for herself and children. But incessant toil with 
 her needle, continued late at night and resumed early in 
 the morning, gradually undermined her health, which had 
 become delicate, and weariness and pain became the con 
 stant companions of her labor. 
 
 Sometimes in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife 
 would have to pass the old home of her girlhood, and 
 twice she saw her father at the window. But either she 
 was changed so that he did not know his child ; or he 
 would not bend from his stern resolution to disown her. 
 On these two occasions she was unable, on returning, to 
 resume her work. Her fingers could not hold or guide 
 the needle ; nor could she, from the blinding tears that 
 filled her eyes have seen to sew, even if her hands had 
 lost the tremor that ran through every nerve of her body. 
 
 A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went off, and 
 still no word had come from the absent husband. Labor 
 beyond her bodily strength, and trouble and grief that 
 were too severe for her spirit to bear, had done sad work 
 upon the forsaken wife and disowned child. She was but 
 a shadow of her former self. 
 
 Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker, 
 who had spoken so plainly to him ; but his words made 
 some impression on him, though no one would have sup 
 posed so, as there was no change in his conduct towards 
 his daughter. He had forewarned her of the consequences, 
 if she acted in opposition to his wishes. He had told her 
 that he would disown her forever. She had taken her own 
 way, and, painful as it was to him, he had to keep his 
 word his word that had ever been inviolate. He might for 
 give her; he might pity her; but she must remain a stranger. 
 Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience to his wishes 
 was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus, in stubborn pride, 
 did his hard heart confirm itself in its cold and cruel estrange 
 ment. Was he happy ? No ! Did he forget his child 5 
 No. He thought of her and dreamed of her, day after 
 day, and night after night. But he had said it, and he 
 would stick to it! His pride was unbending as iron.
 
 358 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone off and 
 left her with two children to provide for with the labor of 
 her hands, he had been made fully aware, but it did not 
 bend him from his stern purpose. 
 
 " She is nothing to me," was his impatient reply to the 
 one who informed him of the fact. This was all that 
 could be seen. But his heart trembled at the intelligence. 
 Neverthless, he stood coldly aloof month after month, and 
 even repulsed, angrily, the kind landlady with whom 
 Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown to the 
 daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart. 
 
 One day the old Friend, whose plain words had not 
 pleased Mr. Crawford, met that gentleman near his own 
 door. The Quaker was leading a little boy by the hand. 
 Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently wished to pass on ; 
 but the Quaker paused, and said 
 
 " I should like to have a few words with thee, friend 
 Crawford." 
 
 " Well, say on." 
 
 " Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend Crawford. 
 Thee never refuses, it is said, to do a deed of charity." 
 
 "I always give something when I am sure the object is 
 deserving." 
 
 " So I am aware. Do you see this little boy?'' 
 
 Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker 
 held by the hand. As he did so, the child lifted to him 
 a gentle face, with mild earnest loving eyes. 
 
 " It is a sweet little fellow," said Mr. Crawford, reach 
 ing his hand to the child. He spoke with some feeling, 
 for there was a look about the boy that went to his heart. 
 
 " He is, indeed, a sweet child and the image of his 
 poor, sick, almost heart-broken mother, for whom I am 
 trying to awaken an interest. She has two children, and 
 this one is the oldest. Her husband is dead, or what may 
 be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as she is concerned, dead 
 to her ; and she does not seem to have a relative in the 
 world , at least none who thinks about or cares for her. 
 In trying to provide for her children, she ha-s overtasked 
 her delicate frame, and made herself sick. Unless some 
 thing is done for her, a worse thing must follow. She 
 must go to the Alms-house, and be separated from her
 
 THE IRON WILL. 359 
 
 children. Look into the sweet, innocent face of this dear 
 child, and let your heart say whether he ought to be taken 
 from his m-other. If she have a woman's feelings, must 
 she not love this child tenderly ; and can any one supply 
 to him his mother's place ?" 
 
 * I will do something for her, certainly," Mr. Crawford 
 said. 
 
 " I wish thee would go with me to see her." 
 
 " There is no use in that. My seeing her can do no 
 good. Get all you can for her, and then come to me. I 
 will help in the good work cheerfully," replied Mr. Craw 
 ford. 
 
 " That is thy dwelling, I believe," said the Quaker, 
 looking around at 'a house adjoining the one before which 
 they stood. 
 
 " Yes, that is my house," returned Crawford. 
 
 " Will thee take this little boy in with thee, and keep 
 him for a few minutes, while I go to see a friend some 
 squares off?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly. Come with me, dear!" And Mr. 
 Crawford held out his hand to the child, who took it with 
 out hesitation. 
 
 " I will see thee in a little while," said the Quaker, as 
 he turned away. 
 
 The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was 
 about four years old. He had a more than usually attractive 
 face ; and an earnest look out of his mild eyes, that made 
 every one who saw him his friend. 
 
 " What is your name, my dear ?" asked Mr. Crawford, 
 as he sat down in his parlor, and took the little fellow 
 upon his knee. 
 
 " Henry," replied the child. He spoke with distinct 
 ness ; and, as he spoke, there was a sweet expression of 
 the lips and eyes, that was particularly winning. 
 
 " It is Henry, is it ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " What else besides Henry ?" 
 
 The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a 
 picture that hung over the mantle, and was looking at it 
 intently. The eyes of Mr. Crawford followed those of
 
 360 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 the child, that rested, he found, on the portrait of his 
 daughter. 
 
 " What else besides, Henry ?" he repeated. 
 
 "Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a 
 moment into the face of Mr. Crawford, and then turning 
 to gaze at the picture on the wall. Every nerve quivered 
 in the frame of that man of iron will. The falling of a 
 bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled and surprised 
 him more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment 
 be looked at him, something strangely familiar and attrac 
 tive. What it was, he did not, until this instant, com 
 prehend. But it was no longer a mystery. 
 
 "Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued 
 voice, after he had recovered, to some extent, his feelings. 
 
 " The child looked again into his face, but longer and 
 more earnestly. Then, without answering, he turned and 
 looked at the portrait on the wall. 
 
 " Do you know who I am, dear ?" repeated Mr. Craw 
 ford. 
 
 " No, sir," replied the child ; and then again turned to 
 gaze upon the picture. 
 
 " Who is that ?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the ob 
 ject that so fixed the little boy's attention. 
 
 "My mother." And as he said these words, he laid 
 his head down upon the bosom of his unknown relative, 
 and shrunk close to him, as if half afraid because of the 
 mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung around the picture 
 on the wall. 
 
 Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain, Mr. 
 Crawford drew his arms around the child and hugged him 
 to his bosom. Pride gave way ; the iron will was bent ; 
 the sternly uttered vow was forgotten. There is power 
 for good in the presence of a little child. Its sphere of 
 innocence subdues and renders impotent the evil spirits 
 that rule in the hearts of selfish men. It was so in this 
 case. Mr. Crawford might have withstood the moving 
 appeal of even his daughter's presence, changed by grief, 
 labor, and suffering, as she was. But his anger, upon which 
 he had suffered the sun to go down, fled before her artless, 
 confiding, innocent child. He thought not of Fanny as 
 the wilful woman, acting from the dictate of her own pas-
 
 THE IRON WILL. 361 
 
 sions or feelings ; but as a little child, lying upon his 
 bosom as a little child, singing and dancing around him 
 as a little child, with, to him, the face of a cherub ; and 
 the sainted mother of that innocent one by her side. 
 
 When the Friend came for the little boy ; Mr. Craw 
 ford said to him, in a low voice made low to hide his 
 emotion 
 
 " I will keep the child." 
 
 " From its mother ?" 
 
 " No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I have 
 room for them all." 
 
 A sunny smile passed over the benevolent countenance 
 of the Friend as he hastily left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labor, had at 
 last been forced to give up. When she did give up, every 
 long strained nerve of mind and body instantly relaxed ; 
 and she became almost as weak and helpless as an infant. 
 While in this state, she was accidentally discovered by 
 the kind-hearted old Friend, who, without her being aware 
 of what he was going to do, made his successful attack 
 upon her father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a 
 good cause, and did not trust in vain. 
 
 " Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with 
 whom Fanny was still boarding, an hour or so after little 
 Henry had been dressed up to take a walk where, the 
 the mother did not know or think, "the good Friend, 
 who was here this morning, says you must ride out. He 
 has brought a carriage for you. It will do you good, I 
 know. He is very kind. Come, get yourself ready." 
 
 Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed. 
 
 " I do not feel able to get up," she replied. "I do not 
 wish to ride out.'* 
 
 " Oh, yes, you must go. The pure, fresh air, and the 
 change, will do you more good than medicine. Come, 
 Mrs. Logan ; I will dress little Julia for you. She needs 
 the change as much as you do." 
 
 " Where is Henry ?" asked the mother. 
 
 "He has not returned yet. But, come ! The carriage 
 is waiting at the door." 
 
 " Won't you go with me?" 
 
 44
 
 362 THE IRON WILL. 
 
 " I would with pleasure but I cannot leave home. I 
 have so much to do." 
 
 After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made 
 the effort to get herself ready to go out. She was so weak, 
 that she tottered about the floor like one intoxicated. But 
 the woman with whom she lived, assisted and encouraged 
 her, until she was at length ready to go. Then the Quaker 
 came up to her room, and with the tenderness and care of a 
 father, supported her down stairs, and when she had taken 
 her place in the vehicle, entered, with her youngest child 
 in his arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he 
 did so, kind and encouraging words. 
 
 The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and 
 then stopped. Scarcely had the motion ceased, when 
 the door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Crawford stood 
 before his daughter. 
 
 "My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken voice, 
 as Fanny, overcome by his unexpected appearance, sunk 
 forward into his arms. 
 
 When the suffering young creature opened her eyes 
 again, she was upon her own bed, in her own room, in her 
 old home. Her father sat by her side, and held one of 
 her hands tightly. There were tears in his eyes, and he 
 tried to speak ; but, though his lips moved, there came 
 from them no articulate sound. 
 
 " Do you forgive me, father ? Do you love me, father ?" 
 said Fanny, in a tremulous whisper, half rising from her 
 pillow, and looking eagerly, almost agonizingly, into her 
 father's face. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father, as 
 he drew his daughter towards him, so that her head could 
 lie against his bosom. 
 
 " But do you love me, father ? Do you love me as of 
 old ?" said the daughter. 
 
 He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell 
 from his eyes and lay warm and glistening upon her face. 
 
 "As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down 
 upon that of his child, and clasping her more tightly in 
 his arms. The long pent up waters of affection were 
 rushing over his soul and obliterating the marks of pride, 
 anger, and the iron will that sustained them in their cruel
 
 THE IRON WILL. 363 
 
 dominion. He was no longer a strong man, stern and 
 rigid in his purpose ; but a child, with a loving and tender 
 heart. 
 
 There was light again in his dwelling ; not the bright 
 light of other times; for now the rays were mellowed. 
 But it was light. And there was music again ; not so 
 joyful ; but it was music, and its spell over his heart was 
 deeper and its influence more elevating. 
 
 The man with the iron will and stern purpose was sub 
 dued, and the power that subdued him, was the presence 
 of a little child
 
 A CUKE FOE LOW SPIRITS. 
 
 A HOUSEHOLD SKETCH. 
 
 FROM some cause, real or imaginary, I felt low spirited. 
 There was a cloud upon my feelings, and I could not smile 
 as usual, nor speak in a tone of cheerfulness. As a na 
 tural result, the light of my countenance being gone, all 
 things around me were in shadow. My husband was 
 sober, and had little to say ; the children would look 
 strangely at me when I answered their questions, or spoke 
 to them for any purpose, and my domestics moved about 
 in a quiet manner, and when they addressed me, did so 
 in a tone more subdued than usual. 
 
 This re-action upon my state, only made darker the 
 clouds that veiled my spirits. I was conscious of this, 
 and was conscious that the original cause of my depres 
 sion was entirely inadequate, in itself, to produce the re 
 sult which had followed. Under this feeling, I made an 
 effort to rally myself, but in vain ; and sank lower from 
 the very struggle to rise above the gloom that over 
 shadowed me. 
 
 When my husband came home at dinner time, I tried to 
 meet him with a smile ; but I felt that the light upon my 
 countenance was feeble, and of brief duration. He looked 
 at me earnestly, and, in his kind and gentle way, inquired 
 if I felt no better, affecting to believe that my ailment was . 
 one of the body instead of the mind. But I scarcely 
 answered him, and I could see that he felt hurt. How 
 much more wretched did I become at this. Could I have 
 then retired to my chamber, and, alone, give my full heart 
 vent in a passion of tears, I might have obtained relief to 
 my feelings. But, I could not do this. 
 
 While I sat at the table, forcing a little food into my 
 mouth for appearance sake} my husband said 
 
 364
 
 A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS. 365 
 
 "You remember the fine lad who has been for some 
 time in our store?" 
 
 I nodded my head, but the question did not awaken in 
 my mind the slightest interest. 
 
 " He has not made his appearance for several days ; 
 and I learned this morning, on sending to the house of 
 his mother, that he was very ill." 
 
 " Ah !" was my indifferent reponse. Had I spoken 
 what was in my mind, I would have said " I'm sorry, 
 but I can't help it." I did not, at the moment, feel the 
 smallest interest in the lad. 
 
 "Yes," added my husband, ""and the person who 
 called to let me know about it, expressed his fears that 
 Edward would not get up again." 
 
 " What ails him ?" I inquired. 
 
 " I did not clearly understand. But he has fever of 
 some kind. You remember his mother very well ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. You know she has worked for me. Edward 
 is her only child, I believe." 
 
 " Yes. And his loss to her will be almost every thing." 
 
 " Is he so dangerous ?" I inquired, a feeling of interest 
 beginning to stir in my heart. 
 
 " He is not expected to live." 
 
 " Poor woman ! How distressed she must be ? I wonder 
 what her circumstances are just at this time. She seemed 
 very poor when she worked for me." 
 
 " And she is very poor still, I doubt not. She has her 
 self been sick, and during the time it is more than prob 
 able, that Edward's wages were all her income. I am 
 afraid she has suffered, and that she has not, now, the 
 means of procuring for her sick boy things necessary for 
 his comfort. Could you not go around there this after 
 noon, and see how they are ?" 
 
 I shook my head instantly, at this proposition, for sym 
 pathy for others was not yet strong enough to expel my 
 selfish despondency of mind. 
 
 " Then I must step around," replied my husband, "be 
 fore I go back to the store, although we are very busy to 
 day, and I am much wanted there. It would not be right 
 to neglect the lad and his mother under present circum 
 stances." "'*' '
 
 366 A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS. 
 
 I felt rebuked at these words ; and. with a forced effort, 
 said 
 
 " I will go." 
 
 "It will be much better for you to see them than for 
 me," returned my husband, " for you can understand 
 their wants better, and minisler to them more effectually. 
 If they need any comforts, I would like you to see them 
 supplied." 
 
 It still cost me an effort to get ready ; but as I had pro 
 mised that I would do as my husband wished, the effort 
 had to be made. By the time I was prepared to go out, 
 I felt something better. The exertion I was required to 
 make, tended to disperse slightly the clouds that hung 
 over me, and, as they began gradually to move, my 
 thoughts turned, with an awakening interest, toward the 
 object of my husband's solicitude. 
 
 All vras silent within the humble abode to which my 
 e-rrand led me. I knocked lightly, and in a few moments 
 the mother of Edward opened the door. She looked pale 
 and anxious. 
 
 " How is your son, Mrs. Ellis?" I inquired, as I step 
 ped in. 
 
 " He is very low, ma'am," she replied. 
 
 " Not dangerous, I hope?" 
 
 " The fever has left him, but he is as weak as an infant. 
 All his strength is gone." 
 
 " But proper nourishment will restore him, if the disease 
 is broken." 
 
 " So the doctor says. But I'm afraid it is too late. He 
 seems to be sinking every hour. Will you walk up and 
 see him, ma'am?'' 
 
 I followed Mrs. Ellis up stairs, and into the chamber 
 where the sick boy lay. I was not surprised at the fear 
 she had expressed, when I saw Edward's pale, sunken 
 face, and hollow, almost expressionless eyes. He scarcely 
 noticed my entrance. 
 
 "Poor boy!" sighed his mother. "He has had a very 
 sick spell." My liveliest interest was at once awakened. 
 
 " He has been sick indeed !" I replied, as I laid my 
 hand upon his white forehead. I found that his skin was 
 cold and damp. The fever had nearly burned out the vital
 
 A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS. 367 
 
 energies of his system. " Do you give him much nour 
 ishment ? 
 
 " He takes a little barley water." 
 
 " Has not the doctor ordered wine ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am" replied Mr. Ellis, but she spoke with an 
 air of hesitation. " He says a spoonful of good wine, 
 three or four times a day, would be very good for him." 
 
 " And you have not given him any ?" 
 
 "No ma'am," 
 
 "We have some very pure wine, that we always keep 
 for sickness. If you will step over to our house, -and tell 
 Alice to give you a bottle of it, I will stay with Edward 
 until you return." 
 
 How brightly glowed that woman's face, as my words 
 fell upon her ears! 
 
 "Oh, ma'am you are very kind!" said she. "But it 
 will be asking too much of you to stay here ! 
 
 " You did'nt ask it, Mrs. Ellis," I smilingly replied. " I 
 have offered to stay ; so do you go for the wine as quickly 
 as you can, for Edward needs it very much." 
 
 I was not required to say more. In a few minutes I was 
 alone with the sick boy, who lay almost as still as if death 
 were resting upon his half closed eye-lids. To some extent, 
 in the half hour I remained thus in that hushed chamber, 
 did I realize the condition and feelings of the poor mother 
 whose only son lay gasping at the very door of death, 
 and all my sympathies were, in consequence, awakened. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Ellis returned with the wine, about a tea 
 spoonful of it was diluted, and the glass containing it 
 placed to the sick lad's lips. The moment its flavor 
 touched his palate, a thrill seemed to pass through his frame, 
 and he swallowed eagerly. 
 
 " It does him good !" said I, speaking warmly, and from 
 an impulse of pleasure that made my heart glow. 
 
 We sat, and looked with silent interest upon the boy's 
 face, and we did not look in vain, for something like 
 warmth came upon his wan cheeks, and when I placed 
 my hand again upon his forehead, the coldness and damp 
 ness was gone. The wine had quickened his languid 
 pulses. I staid an hour longer, and then another spoon 
 ful of the generous wine was given. Its effect was as
 
 A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS. 
 
 marked as at first. I then withdrew from the humble 
 home of the widow and her only child, promising to see 
 them again in the morning. 
 
 When I regained the street and my thoughts, for a 
 moment, reverted to myself, how did I find all changed. 
 The clouds had been dispersed the heavy Hand raised 
 from my bosom. I walked with a freer step. Sympathy 
 for others, and active efforts to do others good, had ex 
 pelled the eril spirits from my heart ; and now serene 
 peace had there again her quiet habitation. There was 
 light in every part of my dwelling when I re-entered it, 
 and I sung cheerfully, as I prepared, with my own hands, 
 a basket of provisions for the poor widow. 
 
 When my husband returned in the evening, he found 
 me at work, cheerfully, in my family, and all bright and 
 smiling again. The effort to do good to others had driven 
 away the darkness from my spirit, and the sunshine was 
 again upon my countenance, and reflected from every 
 member of my household. Lady's Wreath.
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR 
 
 THE CALL. 
 
 " How much salary do they offer ?" asked Mrs. Carroll 
 of her husband, who was sitting near her with a letter in 
 his hand. He had just communicated the fact that a 
 
 Parish was tendered him in the Village of Y , distant 
 
 a little over a hundred and fifty miles. 
 
 " The money is your first thought, Edith," said Mr. 
 Carroll, half chidingly, yet with an affectionate smile. 
 
 This remark caused a slight flush to pass over the face 
 of Mrs. Carroll. She replied, glancing, as she did so, to 
 wards a bed on which lay three children. 
 
 " Is it wrong to think of the little ones whom God has 
 given to us ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! JBu.t we must believe that God who calls us 
 to labor in his vineyard, will feed both us and our chil 
 dren." 
 
 "How are we to know that HE calls us, Edward?" 
 inquired Mrs. Carroll. 
 
 " I hold the evidence in my hand. This letter from the 
 vestry of Y Parish contains the call." 
 
 "It may be only the call of man." 
 
 " Edith ! Edith ! Your faith is weak ; weak almost as 
 the expiring flame." 
 
 " What do they say in that letter? Will you read it to 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, yes." And Mr. Carroll read 
 
 "REV. AND DEAR SIR: Our Parish has been for some 
 months without a minister. On the recommendation of 
 
 Bishop , we have been led to make you an offer of 
 
 the vacant place. The members of the church, generally, 
 are in moderate circumstances, and we cannot, therefore, 
 
 45 369
 
 370 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 offer anything more than a moderate living. There is a 
 neat little parsonage, to which is attached a small garden, 
 for the use of the minister. The salary is three hundred 
 dollars. You will find the people kind and intelligent, and 
 likewise prepossessed in your favor. The Bishop has 
 spoken of you warmly. We should like to hear from you 
 as early as convenient. 
 
 " Very affectionately, &c. &c." 
 
 "Three hundred dollars!" said Mrs. Carroll in a dis 
 appointed tone. 
 
 "And the parsonage," added Mr. Carroll, quickly. 
 
 "Equivalent to sixty or seventy more." 
 
 " Equivalent to a hundred dollars more, at least. 
 
 " We are doing much better here, Edward." 
 
 " True ! But are we to look to worldly advantage 
 alone ?" 
 
 "We have a duty to discharge to our children, which, 
 it seems to me, comes before all other duties." 
 
 " God will take care of these tender lambs, Edith, do 
 not fear. He has called me to preach his everlasting 
 Gospel, and I have heard and answered. Now He points 
 to the field of labor, and shall I hold back because the 
 wages seem small ? I have not so learned my duty. 
 Though lions stood in the way, I would walk in it with a 
 fearless heart. Be not afraid. The salvation of souls is a 
 precious work, and they who are called to the labor will 
 not lack for bread." 
 
 " But Edward," said the wife, in a serious voice, " will 
 it be right for us to enter any path of life blindfold, as it 
 were ? God has given us reason for a guide ; and should 
 we not be governed by its plain dictate ?" 
 
 " We must walk by faith, Edith, and not by sight," 
 replied Mr. Carroll, in a tone that indicated some small 
 measure of impatience. 
 
 " A true faith, dear husband !" said Mrs. Carroll tenderly, 
 while a slight suffusion appeared about her eyes. "A 
 true faith is ever enlightened and guided by reason. When 
 reason plainly points the way, faith bids us walk on with 
 unfaltering steps." 
 
 " And does not reason now point the way?" asked Mr. 
 Carroll.
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 371 
 
 " I think not. From our school we receive nearly seven 
 hundred dollars ; and we have not found that sum too 
 large for our support. I know that I work very hard, and 
 that I find it as much as I can do to keep all things com 
 fortable." 
 
 " But remember that we have rent to pay." 
 
 " I know. Still a little over five hundred dollars remain. 
 And the present offer is only three hundred. Edward, we 
 cannot live upon this sum. Think of our three children. 
 And my health, you know, is not good. I am not so 
 strong as I was, and cannot go through as much." 
 
 The wife's voice trembled. 
 
 "Poor, weak doubter!" said Mr. Carroll, in a tender, 
 yet reproving voice. " Does not He who calls us to this 
 labor know our wants? And is not He able to supply 
 them ? Have you forgotten that the earth is the Lord's 
 and the fullness thereof ? Whose are the cattle upon a 
 thousand hills ? Did not God feed Elijah by ravens? Did 
 the widow's oil fail ? Be not doubtful but believing, Edith ! 
 And what if we do have to meet a few hardships, and 
 endure many privations? Are these to be counted against 
 the salvation of even one precious soul ? The harvest is 
 great, but the laborers are few." 
 
 Mrs. Carroll knew her husband well enough to be 
 assured that if he believed it to be his duty to accept 
 a call from Lapland or the Indian Ocean, he would go. 
 Yet, so strongly did both reason and feeling oppose the 
 contemplated change, that she could not help speaking 
 out what was in her mind. 
 
 <c The day of miracles is past," she replied. 
 
 " We must not expect God to send us bread from 
 heaven if we go into a wilderness, nor water from the rock, 
 if we wander away to some barren desert. This Parish 
 
 of Y cannot afford living to any but a single man, 
 
 and, therefore, it seems to me that none but a single man 
 should accept their call. Wait longer, Edward. We 
 have every comfort for our children, and you are engaged 
 in a highly useful employment. When the right field for 
 ministerial labor offers, God will call you in a manner so 
 clear that you need not feel a doubt on the subject." 
 " I feel no doubt now," said M?, <5c!l. "I recognise
 
 372 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 the voice of my Master, and must obey. And I will obey 
 without fear. Our bread will be given and our water sure. 
 Ah ! Edith. If you could only see with me, eye to eye. 
 If you could only take up your cross hopefully, and walk 
 by my side, how light would seem all the burden I have 
 to bear?" 
 
 Mrs. Carroll felt the words of her husband as a rebuke. 
 This silenced all opposition. 
 
 "I know that I am weak and fearful," she murmured, 
 leaning her head upon her husband, and concealing her 
 face. " But I will try to have courage. If you feel it to 
 be your duty to accept this call, I will go with you ; and, 
 come what may, will not vex your ears by a complaining 
 word. It was only for our little ones that I felt troubled." 
 
 " The Lord will provide, Edith. He never sends any 
 one upon a journey at his own cost. Fear not : we have 
 the God of harvest on our side." 
 
 The will of Mr. Carroll decided in this, as in almost 
 every thing else. He saw reason to accept the call, and 
 did not therefore, perceive any force in his wife's objec 
 tions. 
 
 The school, from which a comfortable living had been 
 obtained, was given up ; an old home and old friends 
 abandoned. Prompt as Mr. Carroll had been to accept the 
 
 call to Y , the process of breaking up did not take 
 
 place without some natural feelings coming in to disturb 
 him. How he was to support his wife and children on 
 three hundred dollars, did not exactly appear. It had 
 cost him, annually, the sum of five hundred, exclusive of 
 rent ; and no one could affirm that he had lived extrava 
 gantly. But he dismissed such unpleasant thoughts by 
 saying, mentally 
 
 " Away with these sinful doubts ! I will not be faith- 
 iess, but believing." 
 
 As for Mrs. Carroll, who felt, in view of the coming 
 trials and labor, that she had but little strength ; the parting 
 from the old place where she had known so many happy 
 hours, gave her deeper pain than she had ever experienced. 
 Strive as she would, she could not keep up her spirits. 
 She could not feel any assurance for the future, could 
 not put her entire trust in Heaven. To her the hopeful
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 373 
 
 spirit of her husband seemed a blind confidence, and not a 
 rational faith. But, even while she felt thus, she condemned 
 herself for the feeling; and strove with how little effect! 
 to walk sustainingly by the side of her husband. 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 Six months have elapsed since Mr Carroll accepted the 
 call to Y . He has preached faithfully and labored dili 
 gently. That was his part. And he has received, quar 
 terly, on the day it became due, his salary. That was 
 according to the contract on the other side. His conscience 
 is clear on the score of duty ; and his parishioners are 
 quite as well satisfied that they have done all that is re 
 quired of them. They offered him three hundred a year 
 and the parsonage. He accepted the offer; and, by that 
 act, declared the living to be adequate to his wants. If 
 he was satisfied they were. 
 
 " I don't know how he gets along on three hundred 
 dollars," some one, more thoughtful about such matters, 
 would occasionally say. "It costs me double that sum, 
 and my family is no larger than his." 
 
 " They get a great many presents," would, in all proba 
 bility, be replied to this. " Mr. A , I know, sent them 
 
 a load of wood some time ago ; a Mr. B told me that 
 
 he had sent them a quarter of Jamb and a bushel of apples. 
 And I have, two or three times, furnished one little matter 
 and another. I'm sure what is given to them will amount 
 to half as much as Mr. Carroll's salary." 
 
 " This makes a difference, of course," is the satisfied 
 answer. And yet, all told, the presents received by the 
 whole family, in useful articles, has not reached the value 
 of twentyfive dollars during six months. And this has 
 been more than abstracted from them by the kind ladies 
 of the parish, who must needs visit and take tea with the 
 minister as often as convenient. 
 
 Six months had passed since the Rev. Mr. Carroll re 
 moved to Y . It was mid-winter ; and a stormy day 
 
 cljsed in with as stormy a night. The rays which came
 
 374 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 through the minister's little study-window grew faint in the 
 pervading shadows, and he could no longer see with 
 sufficient clearness to continue writing. So he went down 
 stairs to the room in which were his wife and children. 
 The oldest child was a daughter, six years of age, named 
 Edith from her mother. Edward, between three and four 
 years old, and Aggy the baby, made up the number of 
 Mr. Carroll's household treasures. They were all just of 
 an age to require their mother's attention in every thing. 
 As her husband entered the room, Mrs. Carroll said 
 
 " I'm glad you've come down, dear. I can't get Aggy 
 out of my arms a minute. It's nearly supper time, and I 
 hav'n't been able even to put the kettle on the fire. She's 
 very fretful." 
 
 Mr. Carroll took the baby. His wife threw a shawl over 
 her head, and taking an empty bucket from the dresser, 
 was passing to the door, when her husband said 
 
 " Stop, stop, Edith ! You mus'n't go for water in this 
 storm. Here, take the baby." 
 
 " I can go well enough," replied Mrs. Carroll, and 
 before her husband could prevent her, she was out in the 
 blustering air, with the snowflakes driving in her face. 
 
 " Oh, Edith ! Edith ! Why will you do so ?" said her 
 husband, as soon as she came back. 
 
 " It's as easy for me to go as for you," she replied. 
 
 " No it isn't, Edith. I am strong to what you are. If 
 you expose yourself in this way, it will be the death of 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Carroll shook the snow from her shawl and dress, 
 and brushed it from her shoes, saying as she did so 
 
 " Oh no! a little matter like this won't hurt me." 
 
 She then filled the tea-kettle and placed it over the fire. 
 After which she set out the table, and busied herself in 
 getting ready their evening meal. Meanwhile, Mr. Carroll 
 walked the floor with Aggy in his arms, both looking and 
 feeling serious ; while the two older children amused them 
 selves with a picture book. 
 
 As the reader has probably anticipated, the "living" (?) 
 
 at Y proved altogether inadequate to the wants of 
 
 Mr. Carroll's family ; and faith, confidence, and an abstract 
 trust in Providence by no means sufficed for its increase.
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 375 
 
 At first, Mrs. Carroll had a servant girl to help her in her 
 household duties, as usual. But she soon found that this 
 would not do. A dollar and a quarter a week, and the 
 cost of boarding the girl, took just about one-third of their 
 entire income. So, after the first three months, " help" 
 was dispensed with. The washing had to be put out ; 
 which cost half a dollar, weekly. To get some one in the 
 house to iron, would cost as much more. So Mrs. Carroll 
 took upon herself the task of ironing all the clothes, in ad 
 dition to the entire work of the house and care of her three 
 children. 
 
 For three months this hard labor was performed ; but 
 not without a visible effect. The face of Mrs. Carroll 
 grew thinner ; her step lost its lightness ; and her voice 
 its cheerful tone. All this her husband saw, and saw with 
 intense pain. But, there was no remedy. His income 
 was but three hundred dollars a year ; and out of that 
 small sum it was impossible to pay one hundred for the 
 wages and board of a girl, and have enough left for the 
 plainest food and clothing. There was, therefore, no 
 alternative. All that it was in his power to do, was done 
 by Mr. Carroll to lighten the heavy burdens under which 
 his wife was sinking ; but it was only a little, in reality, 
 that he could do ; and he was doomed to see her daily 
 wasting away, and her strength departing from her. 
 
 At the time we have introduced them, Mrs. Carroll had 
 begun to show some symptoms of failing health, that 
 alarmed her husband seriously. She had taken cold, which 
 was followed by a dry, fatiguing cough, and a more than 
 usual prostration of strength. On coming in with her 
 bucket of water from the well, as just mentioned, she did 
 not take off her shoes, and brush away the snow that had 
 been pressed in around the tops against her stockings, but 
 suffered it to lie there and melt, thus wetting her feet. It 
 was nearly an hour from the time Mr. Carroll came down 
 from his room, before supper was ready. Aggy was, by 
 this time, asleep ; so that the mother could pour out the 
 tea without having, as was usually the case, to hold the 
 baby in her arms. 
 
 " Ain't you going to eat anything ?" asked Mr. Carroll,
 
 376 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 seeing that his wife, whose face looked flushed, only sipped 
 a little tea. 
 
 " I don't feel any appetite," replied Mrs. Carroll. 
 
 "But you'd better try to eat something, dear." 
 
 Just then there was a knock at the door. On opening 
 it, Mr. Carroll found a messenger with a request for him 
 to go and see a parishioner who was ill. 
 
 " You can't go away there in this storm," said his wife, 
 as soon as the messenger had retired. 
 
 " It's full a mile off." 
 
 " I must go, Edith," replied the minister. " If the dis 
 tance were many miles instead of one, it would be all the 
 same. Duty calls." 
 
 And out into the driving storm the minister went, and 
 toiled on his lonely way through the deep snow to reach 
 the bedside of a suffering fellow man, who sought spiritual 
 consolation in the hour of sickness, from one whose tem 
 poral wants he had, while in health, shown but little inclina 
 tion to supply. That consolation offered, he turned his 
 face homeward again, and again breasted the unabated 
 storm. He found his wife in bed something unusual for 
 her at ten o'clock and, on laying his hand upon her face, 
 discovered that she was in a high fever. In alarm, he 
 went for the doctor, who declined going out, but sent medi 
 cine, and promised to come over in the morning. 
 
 In the morning Mrs. Carroll was much worse, and 
 unable to rise. To dress the children and get breakfast, 
 Mr. Carroll found to be tasks of no very easy performance 
 for him ; and as soon as they were completed, he called in 
 a neighbor to stay with his wife while he went in search of 
 some one to come and take her place in the family until 
 she was able to go about again as usual. 
 
 That time, however, did not soon come. Weeks passed 
 before she could even sit up, and then she was so suscepti 
 ble of cold, that even the slightest draft of air into the room 
 affected her ; and so weak, that, in attempting to mend a 
 garment for one of her children, the exertion caused her to 
 faint away. 
 
 When Mrs. Carroll was taken sick, they had only fifteen 
 dollars of their quarter's salary left. It was but two weeks 
 since they had received it, yet nearly all was gone, for
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 377 
 
 twenty-five dollars, borrowed to meet expenses during the 
 last month of the quarter, had to be paid according to pro 
 mise : shoes for nearly every member of the family had to 
 be purchased, besides warmer clothing for themselves and 
 children ; ai.d several little bills unavoidably contracted, 
 had to be settled. The extra expense of sickness, added 
 to the regular demand, soon melted away the trifling bal 
 ance, and Mr. Carroll found himself, with his wife still 
 unable to leave her room in fact, scarcely able to sit up 
 penniless and almost hopeless. His faith had grown weak 
 his confidence was gone his spirits were broken. Daily 
 he prayed for strength to bear up ; for a higher trust in 
 Providence ; for light upon his dark pathway. But no 
 strength came, no confidence was created, no light shone 
 upon his way. And for this we need not wonder. It 
 was no day of miracles, as his wife had forewarned him. 
 He had, as too many do, hoped for sustenance in a field 
 of labor where reason could find no well-grounded hope. 
 He knew that he could not live on three hundred a year ; 
 yet he had accepted the offer, in the vain hope that all 
 would come out well! 
 
 The last shilling left the hand of the unhappy minister, 
 and at least six weeks remained before another quarter's 
 salary became due. He could not let his family starve ; 
 so, after much thought, he finally determined to call the 
 vestry together, frankly state his case, and tell his brethren 
 that it was impossible for him to live on the small sum they 
 allowed. 
 
 A graver meeting of the vestry of Y parish had not 
 
 for a long time taken place. As for an increase of salary, 
 that was declared to be out of the question entirely. They 
 had never paid any one over three hundred dollars, which, 
 with v the parsonage, had always been considered a very 
 liberal compensation. They were very sorry for Mr. Carroll, 
 and would advance him a quarter's salary. But all increase 
 was out of the question. They knew the people w r ould 
 not hear to it. The meeting then broke up, and the offi 
 cial members of the church walked gravely away, while 
 Mr. Carroll went home, feeling so sad and dispirited, that 
 he almost wished that he could die. 
 
 The Parish of Y was not rich; though six hundred 
 
 46
 
 378 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 dollars could have been paid to a minister with as little 
 inconvenience to the members as three hundred. But the 
 latter sum was considered ample ; and much surprise was 
 manifested when it was found that the new minister asked 
 for an increase, even before the first year of his engagement 
 had expired. 
 
 The face of his wife had never looked so pale, her 
 cheeks so thin, nor her eyes so sunken, to the minister, 
 as when he came home from this mortifying and dishearten 
 ing meeting of the vestry. One of those present was the 
 very person he had gone a mile to visit on the night of the 
 snow-storm ; and he had more to say that hurt him than any 
 of the rest. 
 
 " Edith," said Mr. Carroll, taking the thin hand of his 
 wife, as he sat down by her and looked sadly into her face, 
 "we must leave here.'' 
 
 "Must we? Why?" she asked, without evincing very 
 marked surprise. 
 
 " We cannot live on three hundred a year." 
 
 "Where will we go?" 
 
 "Heaven only knows! But we cannot remain here!" 
 
 And as the minister said this, he bowed his head until 
 his face rested upon the arm of his wife. He tried to hide 
 his emotion, but Edith knew that tears were upon the 
 cheeks of her husband. 
 
 THE SEQUEL. 
 
 JUST one year has elapsed, since Mr. Carroll accepted 
 the call from Y . It has been a year of trouble, end 
 ing in deep affliction. 
 
 When the health of Mrs. Carroll yielded under her too 
 heavy burdens, it did not come back again. Steadily she 
 continued to sink, after the first brief rallying of her sys 
 tem, until it became hopelessly apparent that the time of her 
 departure was near at hand. She was too fragile a crea 
 ture to be thrown into the position she occupied. Inherit 
 ing a delicate constitution, and raised with even an unwise 
 tenderness, she was no more fitted to be a pastor's wife,
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 379 
 
 with only three hundred a year to live upon, than a sum 
 mer flower is to take the place of a hardy autumn plant. 
 This her husband should have known and taken into the 
 account, before he decided to accept the call from Y . 
 
 When it was found that Mrs. Carroll, after partially 
 recovering from her first severe attack, began gradually to 
 sink ; a strong interest in her favor was awakened among 
 the ladies of the congregation, and they showed her many 
 kind attentions. But all these attentions, and all this kind 
 ness, did not touch the radical disability under which she 
 was suffering. They did not remove her too heavy weight 
 of care and labor. All the help in her family that she felt 
 justified in employing, was a girl between fourteen and 
 fifteen years of age, and this left so much for her to do in 
 the care of her children, and in necessary household duties, 
 that she suffered all the time from extreme physical ex 
 haustion. 
 
 In the just conviction of the error he had committed, 
 and while he felt the hopelessness of his condition, Mr. 
 Carroll, as has been seen, resolved to leave Y immedi 
 ately. This design he hinted to one of the members of 
 his church. 
 
 "You engaged with us for a year, did you not?" en 
 quired the member. 
 
 That settled the question in the mind of the unhappy 
 minister. He said no more to any one on the subject of 
 his income, or about leaving the parish. But his mind 
 was made up not to remain a single day, after his contract 
 had expired. If in debt at the time, as he knew he must 
 be, he would free himself from the incumbrances by sell 
 ing a part of his household furniture. Meantime his live 
 liest fears were aroused for his wife, as symptom after 
 symptom of a rapid decline, showed themselves. That he 
 did not preach as good sermons, nor visit as freely among 
 his parishioners during the last three months of the time 
 
 he remained at Y , is no matter of surprise. Some, 
 
 more considerate than the rest, excused him ; but others 
 complained, even to the minister himself. No matter. Mr. 
 Carroll had too much at home to fill his heart to leave room 
 for a troubled pulsation on this account. He was con 
 science-clear on the score of obligation to his parishioners.
 
 380 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 At last, and this before the year had come to its close, 
 the drooping wife and mother took to her bed, never again 
 to leave it until carried forth by the mourners. We will 
 not pain the reader by any details of the affecting scenes 
 attendant upon the last few weeks of her mortal life ; nor 
 take him to the bed-side of the dying one, in the hour that 
 she passed away. To state the fact that she died, is 
 enough and painful enough. 
 
 For all this, it did not occur to the people of Y 
 
 that, in anything they had been lacking. They had never 
 given but three hundred a year to a minister, and, as a 
 matter of course, considered the sum as much as a reason 
 able man could expect. As for keeping a clergyman in 
 luxury, and permitting him to get rich ; they did not think 
 it consistent with the office he held, which required self- 
 denial and a renouncing of the world. As to how he 
 could live on so small a sum, that was a question rarely 
 asked ; and when presented, was put to rest by some back 
 handed kind of an answer, that left the matter as much 
 in the dark as ever. 
 
 Notwithstanding the deep waters of affliction through 
 which Mr. Carroll was required to pass, his Sabbath duties 
 were but once omitted, and that on the day after he had 
 looked for the last time upon the face of his lost one. 
 Four Sabbaths more he preached, and then, in accordance 
 with notice a short time previously given, resigned his 
 pastoral charge. There were many to urge him with 
 great earnestness not to leave them ; but a year's experi 
 ence enabled him to see clearer than he did before, and to 
 act with greater decision. In the hope of retaining him, 
 the vestry strained a point, and offered to make the salary 
 three hundred and fifty dollars. But much to their sur 
 prise, the liberal offer was refused. 
 
 It happened that the Bishop of the Diocese came to visit 
 Y a week before Mr. Carroll intended taking his depar 
 ture with his motherless children, for his old home, where 
 a church had been offered him in connexion with a school. 
 To him, three or four prominent members of the church 
 complained that the minister was mercenary, and looked 
 more to the loaves and fishes than to the duty of saving 
 souls.
 
 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 381 
 
 " Mercenary !" said the Bishop, with a strong expression 
 of surprise. 
 
 " Yes, mercenary," repeated his accusers. 
 
 "So far from it," said the Bishop, warmly, "he has 
 paid more during the year, for supporting the Gospel in 
 Y , than any five men in the parish put together." 
 
 "Mr Carroll has!" 
 
 " How much do you give ?" addressing one. 
 
 " I pay ten dollars pew rent, and give ten extra, 
 besides," was the answer. 
 
 " And you," speaking to another. 
 
 " The same." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 Thirty dollars, in all." 
 
 " While," said the Bishop, speaking with increased 
 warmth, "your minister gave two hundred dollars." 
 
 This, of course, took them greatly by surprise, and they 
 asked for an explanation.. 
 
 " It is given in a few words," returned the Biahop. 
 "It cost him, though living in the most frugal manner, five 
 hundred dollars for the year. Of this, you paid three hun 
 dred, and he two hundred dollars." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Bishop," said one. 
 
 "Plainly, then ; he was in debt at the end of the year, 
 two hundred dollars, for articles necessary for the health 
 and comfort of his family, to pay which he has sold a large 
 part of his furniture. He was not working for himself, 
 but for you, and, therefore, actually paid two hundred dol 
 lars for the support of the Gospel in Y , while you 
 
 paid but twenty or thirty dollars apiece. Under these cir 
 cumstances, my friends, be assured that the charge of 
 being mercenary, comes with an exceeding bad grace. 
 Nor is this all that he has sacrificed. An insufficient 
 income threw upon his wife, duties beyond her strength to 
 bear; and she sunk under them. Had you stepped for 
 ward in time, and lightened these duties by a simple act 
 of justice, she might still be living to bless her husband 
 and children ! Three hundred a year for a man with a 
 wife and three children, is not enough ; and you know it, 
 my brethren ! Not one of you could five on less than dou 
 ble the sum."
 
 332 THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 This rebuke came with a stunning force upon the ears 
 of men who had expected the Bishop to agree with them 
 in their complaint, and had its effect. On the day Mr. 
 Carroll left the village, he received a kind and sympathetic 
 letter from the official members of the church enclosing the 
 sum of two hundred dollars. The first impulse of his 
 natural feelings was to return the enclosure, but reflection 
 showed him that such an act would be wrong; and so he 
 retained it, after such acknowledgments as he deemed the 
 occasion required. 
 
 Back to his old home the minister went, but with feel 
 ings, how different, alas ! from those he had experienced 
 
 on leaving for Y . The people among whom he had 
 
 labored for a year, felt as if they had amply paid him for 
 all the service he had rendered ; in fact had overpaid him, 
 as if money, doled out grudgingly, could compensate for 
 all he had sacrificed and suffered, in his effort to break for 
 them the Bread of Life. 
 
 Here is one of the phases of ministerial life, presented 
 with little ornament or attractiveness. There are many 
 other phases, more pleasant to look upon, and far more 
 flattering to the good opinion we are all inclined to enter 
 tain of ourselves. But it is not always best to look upon 
 the fairest side. The cold reality of things, it is needful 
 
 that we should sometimes see. The parish of Y , 
 
 does not, by any means, stand alone. And Mr. Carroll is 
 not the only man who has suffered wrong from the hands 
 of those who called him to minister in spiritual things, yet 
 neglected duly to provide for the natural and necessary 
 wants of the bodv
 
 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 MR. EASY sat alone in his counting room, one afternoon, 
 in a most comfortable frame, both as regards mind and 
 body. A profitable speculation in the morning had brought 
 the former into a state of great complacency, and a good 
 dinner had done all that was required for the repose of 
 the latter. He. was in that delicious, half asleep, half 
 awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very 
 pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed 
 a charm for his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held it, 
 upon his knee. His head was gently reclined backwards 
 against the top of a high, leather cushioned chair ; while 
 his eyes, half opened, saw all things around him but im 
 perfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly opened, 
 and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, 
 thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. 
 He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and 
 soon stood directly before him. 
 
 Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. 
 He knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had 
 once seen better circumstances than those that now sur 
 rounded her. Her husband had, while living, been his 
 intimate friend, and he had promised him, at his dying 
 hour, to be the protector and adviser of his wife and 
 children. He had meant to do all he promised, but, not 
 being very fond of trouble, except where stimulated to 
 activity by the hope of gaining some good for himself, he 
 had not been as thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Mayberry as 
 he ought to have been. She was a modest, shrinking, 
 sensitive woman, and had, notwithstanding her need of a 
 friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, or even 
 sent to request him to act for her in any thing, except once. 
 Her husband had left her poor. She knew little of the 
 world. She had three quite young children, and one, the 
 oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy been true to his 
 
 383
 
 334 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her dark 
 path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt 
 and fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass 
 since the death of her husband, without having once called 
 upon her. This neglect had not been intentional. His 
 will was good but never active at the present moment. 
 " To-morrow," or " next week," or " very soon," he 
 would call upon Mrs. Mayberry ; but to-morrow, or next 
 week, or very soon, had never yet come. 
 
 As for the widow, soon after her husband's death, she 
 found that poverty was to be added to affliction. A few 
 hundred dollars made up the sum of all that she received 
 after the settlement of his business, which had never been 
 in a very prosperous condition. On this, under the exer 
 cise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled to live for 
 nearly a year. Then the paucity of her little store made it 
 apparent to her mind that individual exertion was required 
 directed towards procuring the means of support for her 
 little family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be 
 done, and having no one to advise her, nearly two months 
 more passed before she could determine what to do. By 
 that time she had but a few dollars left, and was in a state 
 of great mental distress and uncertainty. She then applied 
 for work at some of the shops, and obtained common sew 
 ing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing like a 
 support. 
 
 Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to 
 this period. But now she had to withdraw him. It was 
 impossible any longer to pay his tuition fees. He was 
 an intelligent lad active in mind, and pure in his moral 
 principles. But like his mother, sensitive, and inclined to 
 avoid observation. Like her, too, he had a proud inde 
 pendence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or 
 accepting a favor, or putting himself under an obligation 
 to any one. He first became aware of his mother's true 
 condition, when she took him from school, and explained 
 the reason for so doing. At once his mind rose into the 
 determination to do something to aid his mother. He felt 
 a glowing confidence, arising from the consciousness of 
 strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the 
 power to act, and to act efficiently.
 
 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 335 
 
 "Don't be disheartened, mother," he said, with anima 
 tion. " I can and will do something. I can help you. 
 You have worked for me a great many years. Now I will 
 work for you." 
 
 Where there is a will, there is a way. But it is often 
 the case, that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that 
 enables it to find the right way at once. So it proved in 
 the case of Hiram Mayberry. He had a strong enough 
 will, but did not know how to bring it into activity. Good, 
 without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this the 
 poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his 
 mother 
 
 " What can you do, child !" an answer came not so 
 readily. 
 
 " Oh, I can do a great many things," was easily said ; 
 but, even in saying so, a sense of inability followed the 
 first thought of what he should do, that the declaration 
 awakened. 
 
 The will impels, and then the understanding seeks for 
 the means of affecting the purposes of the will. In the 
 case of young Hiram, thought followed affection. He 
 pondered for many days over the means by which he was 
 to aid his mother. But, the more he thought, the more 
 conscious did he become, that, in the world, he was a 
 weak boy. That however strong might be his purpose, 
 his means of action were limited. His mother could aid 
 him but little. She had but one suggestion to make, and 
 that was, that he should endeavor, to get a situation in 
 some store, or counting room. This he attempted to do. 
 Following her direction, he called upon Mr. Easy, who 
 promised to see about looking him up a situation. It 
 happened, the day after, that a neighbor spoke to him 
 about a lad for his store (Mr. Easy had already forgotten 
 his promise) Hiram was recommended, and the man 
 called to see his mother. 
 
 " How much salary can you afford to give him ?" asked 
 Mrs. Mayberry, after learning all about the situation, and 
 feeling satisfied that her son should accept of it. 
 
 " Salary, ma'am ?" returned the storekeeper, in a tone 
 of surprise. "We never give a boy any salary for the 
 first year. The knowledge that is acquired of business is 
 
 47
 
 386 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 always considered a full compensation. After the first 
 year, if he likes us, and we like him, we may give him 
 seventy-five or a hundred dollars." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Mayberry's countenance fell immediately. 
 
 " I wouldn't think of his going out now, if it were not 
 in the hope of his earning something," she said in a dis 
 appointed voice. 
 
 " How much did you expect him to earn ?" was asked 
 by the storekeeper. 
 
 " I didn't know exactly what to expect. But I supposed 
 that he might earn four or five dollars a week." 
 
 "Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter, an able 
 bodied, industrious man," was returned. "If you wish 
 your son to become acquainted with mercantile business, 
 you must not expect him to earn much for three or four 
 years. At a trade you may receive for him barely a suffi 
 ciency to board and clothe him, but nothing more." 
 
 This declaration so dampened the feelings of the mother 
 that she could not reply for some moments. At length she 
 said 
 
 "If you will take my boy with the understanding, that, 
 in case I am not able to support him, or hear of a situa 
 tion where a salary can be obtained, you will let him leave 
 your employment without hard feelings, he shall go into 
 your store at once." 
 
 To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went 
 with him according to agreement. A few weeks passed, 
 and the lad, liking both the business and his employer, 
 his mother felt exceedingly anxious for him to remain. 
 But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her little 
 store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet 
 been able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar 
 and a half a week. This was not more than sufficient to 
 buy the plainest food for her little flock. It would not pay 
 rent, nor get clothing. To meet the former, recourse was 
 had to the sale of her husband's small, select library. 
 Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably decent, 
 and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she 
 was able to keep Hiram in a suitable condition, to appear 
 at the store of his employer. 
 
 Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. May-
 
 I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 387 
 
 berry working late and early. The natural result was, 
 a gradual failure of strength. In the morning, when she 
 awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy, that to rise 
 required a strong effort, and even after she was up, and 
 attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost 
 refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature 
 gave way. One morning she was so sick that she could 
 not rise. Her head throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain 
 her whole body ached, and her skin burned with fever. 
 Hiram got something for the children to eat, and then 
 taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old, into 
 th.e house of a neighbor who had showed them some good 
 will, asked her if she would take care of his sister until he 
 returned home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily 
 consented to do promising, also, to call in frequently to 
 see his mother. 
 
 At dinner time Hiram found his mother quite ill. She 
 was no better at night. For three days the fever raged 
 violently. Then, under the careful treatment of their old 
 family physician, it was subdued. After that she gradually 
 recovered, but very slowly. The physician said she must 
 not attempt again to work as she had done. This injunction, 
 was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do so. 
 
 "I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a 
 neighbor who had often aided her by kind advice, said, 
 in reply to the widows statement of her unhappy condition. 
 "You cannot maintain these children, certainly. And I 
 don't see how, in your present feeble state, you are going 
 to maintain yourself. There is but one thing that I can 
 advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to 
 endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan 
 asylum. The youngest you may be able to keep with you. 
 The oldest can support himself at something or other." 
 
 The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this pro 
 position. She half sobbed, caught her breath, and looked 
 her adviser with a strange, bewildered stare in the face. 
 
 " 0, no ! I cannot do that ! I cannot be separated 
 from my dear little children. Who will care for them like 
 a mother?" 
 
 " It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is 
 a stern ruler. You cannot keep them with you that is
 
 388 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 certain. You have not the strength to provide them with 
 even the coarsest food. In an asylum, with a kind matron, 
 they will be better off than under any other circum 
 stances." 
 
 But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head. 
 
 " No no no," she replied " I cannot think of such 
 a thing. I cannot be separated from them. I shall soon 
 be able to work again better able than before." 
 
 The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the 
 matter. When Hiram returned at dinner time, his face had 
 in it a more animated expression than usual. 
 
 " Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, " I heard to 
 day that a boy was wanted at the Gazette office, who 
 could write a good hand. The wages were to be four 
 dollars a week." 
 
 " You did !" Mrs. Mayberry said, quickly, her weak 
 frame trembling, although she struggled hard to be com 
 posed. 
 
 "Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the 
 publisher, and could get me the place, I am sure." 
 
 Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure 
 it, all will be well, if not, your little brothers and sisters 
 will have to be separated, perhaps sent to an orphan 
 asylum." 
 
 Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands and 
 sobbed bitterly for some moments. 
 
 Hiram eat his frugal meal quickly, and returned to ihe 
 store, where he had to remain until his employer went 
 home and dined. On his return he asked liberty to be 
 absent for half an hour, which was granted. He then went 
 direct to the counting room of Mr. Easy, and disturbed 
 him as has been seen. Approaching with a timid step, and 
 a flushed brow, he said in a confused and hurried manner 
 
 " Mr Easy there is a lad wanted at the Gazette office." 
 
 " Well?" returned Mr. Easy in no very cordial tone. 
 
 " Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to 
 
 Mr. G for me." 
 
 " Havn't you a place in a store?" 
 " Yes sir. But I don't get any wages. And at the 
 Gazette office they will pay four dollars a week."
 
 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 389 
 
 " But the knowledge of business to be gained where 
 you are, will be worth a great deal more than four dollars 
 a week." 
 
 " I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and 
 clothe me. I must earn something." 
 
 "Oh, aye, that's it. Very well, I'll see about it for 
 you." 
 
 " When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram. 
 
 " When ? Oh, almost any time. Say to-morrow or next 
 day." 
 
 The lad departed, and Mr. Easy's head fell back upon 
 the chair, the impression which had been made upon his 
 mind passing away almost as quickly as writing upon 
 water. 
 
 With anxious trembling hearts did Mrs. Mayberry and 
 her son wait for the afternoon of the succeeding day. On 
 the success of Mr. Easy's application, rested all their hopes. 
 Neither she nor Hiram eat over a few mouthfuls at dinner 
 time. The latter hurried away, and returned to the store, 
 there to wait with trembling eagerness until his employer 
 should return from dinner, and he again be free to go ana 
 see Mr. Easy. 
 
 To Mrs. Mayberry, the afternoon passed slowly. She 
 had forgotten to tell her son to return home immediately, 
 if the application should be successful. He did not come 
 back, and she had, consequently, to remain in a state of 
 anxious suspense until dark. He came in at the usual 
 hour. His dejected countenance told of disappointment. 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Easy ?" Mrs. Mayberry asked, in a 
 low troubled voice. 
 
 " Yes. But he hadn't been to the Gazette office. He 
 said he had been very busy. But that he would see about 
 it soon." 
 
 Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after 
 sitting silent and pensive during the evening, retired early 
 to bed. On the next day, urged on by his anxious desire 
 to get the situation of which he had heard, Hiram again 
 called at the counting room of Mr. Easy, his heart trembling 
 with hope and fear. There were two or three men present. 
 Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he 
 entered. His appearance had evidently annoyed the mcr-
 
 390 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 chant. Had he consulted his feelings, he would have 
 retired at once. But that was too much at stake. Gliding 
 to a corner of the room, he stood, with his hat in his hand, 
 and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr. Easy was 
 disengaged. At length the gentlemen with whom he was 
 occupied went away, and Mr. Easy turned towards the 
 boy. Hiram looked up earnestly in his face. 
 
 " I have really been so much occupied my lad," the 
 merchant said, in a kind of apologetic tone, " as to have 
 entirely forgotten my promise to you. But I will see about 
 it. Come in again, to-morrow." 
 
 Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh towards 
 the door. The keen disappointment expressed in the boy's 
 face, and the touching quietness of his manner, reached 
 the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was not a hard hearted man, 
 but selfishly indifferent to others. He could feel deeply 
 enough if he would permit himself to do so. But of this 
 latter failing he was not often guilty. 
 
 " Stop a minute," he said. And then stood in a musing 
 attitude for a moment or two. " As you seem so anxious 
 about this matter," he added, "if you will wait here a little 
 while, I will step down to see Mr. G at once." 
 
 The boy's lace brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the 
 effect of what he said, and it made the task he was about 
 entering upon reluctantly, an easy one. The boy waited 
 for nearly a quarter of an hour, so eager to know the result 
 that he could not compose himself to sit down. The sound 
 of Mr. Easy's step at the door at length made his heart 
 bound. The merchant entered. Hiram looked into his 
 face. One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly 
 cherished hope to the ground. 
 
 U I am sorry," Mr. Easy said, "but the place was filled 
 this morning. I was a little too late". 
 
 The boy was unable to control his feelings. The disap 
 pointment was too great. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he 
 turned away and left the counting-room without speaking. 
 
 " I'm afraid I've done wrong," said Mr. Easy to him 
 self, as he stood, in a musing attitude, by his desk, about 
 five minutes after Hiram had left. " If I had seen about 
 the situation when he first called upon me, I might have 
 secured it for him. But it's too late now."
 
 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 391 
 
 After saying this the merchant placed his thumbs in the 
 arm-holes of his waistcoat, and commenced walking the 
 floor of his counting room backwards and forwards. He 
 could not get out of his mind the image of the boy as he 
 turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts of the 
 friend's widow whom he had neglected. This state of 
 mind continued all the afternoon. Its natural effect was 
 to cause him to cast about in his mind for some way of 
 getting employment for Hiram that would yield immediate 
 returns. But nothing presented itself. 
 
 " I wonder if I couldn't make room for him here?" he 
 at length said "He looks like a bright boy. I know 
 
 Mr. is highly pleased with him. He spoke of getting 
 
 four dollars a week. That's a good deal to give to a mere 
 lad. But, I suppose I might make him worth that to me. 
 And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I 
 believe I cannot keep a clear conscience and any longer 
 remain indifferent to the welfare of my old friend's widow 
 and children. I must look after them a little more closely 
 than I have heretofore done." 
 
 This resolution relieved the mind of Mr. Easy a good 
 deal. 
 
 When Hiram left the counting room of the merchant, his 
 spirits were crushed to the very earth. He found his way- 
 back, how he hardly knew, to his place of business, and 
 mechanically performed the tasks allotted him, until evening. 
 Then he returned home, reluctant to meet his mother, 
 and yet anxious to relieve her state of suspense, even, if 
 tn doing so, he should dash a last hope from her heart. 
 When he came in Mrs. Mayberry lifted her eyes to his, 
 inquiringly ; but dropped them instantly she needed no 
 words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter disappoint 
 ment. 
 
 " You did not get the place ?" she at length said, with 
 forced composure. 
 
 " No It was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised 
 to see about it. But he didn't do so. When he went 
 this afternoon, it was too late." 
 
 Hiram said this with a trembling voice and lips that 
 quivered. 
 
 " Thy will be done !" murmured the widow, lifting her
 
 392 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 
 
 eyes upwards. " If these tender ones are to be taken from 
 1heir mother's fold, oh, do thou temper for them the piercing 
 blast, and be their shelter amid the raging tempests." 
 
 A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. 
 Mayberry. A brief struggle with her feelings enabled her 
 to overcome them in time to receive a visitor with com 
 posure. It was the merchant. 
 
 "Mr. Easy!" she said in surprise. 
 
 "Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do!" There was some 
 restraint and embarrassment in his manner. He was con 
 scious of having neglected the widow of his friend, before 
 he came. The humble condition in which he found her, 
 quickened that consciousness into a sting. 
 
 " I am sorry, madam," he said after he had become 
 seated arid made a few inquiries, " that I did not get the 
 place for your son. In fact, I am to blame in the matter. 
 But, I have been thinking since that he would suit me 
 exactly, and if you have no objections, I will take him and 
 pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year. 
 
 Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings. were too 
 much excited by this sudden and unlooked for proposal, 
 to allow her to speak for some moments. Even then her 
 assent was made with tears glistening on her cheeks. 
 
 Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of 
 Hiram from the store where he had been engaged, to the 
 counting room of Mr. Easy. The salary he received was 
 just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with what she her 
 self earned, to keep her little together, until Hiram, who 
 proved a valuable assistant in Mr. Easy's business, could 
 command a larger salary, and render her more important 
 hid.
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 " THE amount of that bill, if you please, sir." 
 
 The man thus unceremoniously addressed, lifted his 
 eyes from the ledger, over which he had been bending 
 for the last six hours, with scarcely the relaxation of a 
 moment, and exhibited a pale, care-worn countenance 
 and, though still young, a head over which were thickly 
 scattered the silver tokens of age. A sad smile played 
 over his intelligent features, a smile meant to shake the 
 sternness of the man who was troubling his peace, as he 
 replied in a low, calm voice 
 
 " To-day, it will be impossible, sir." 
 
 " And how many times have you given me the same 
 answer. I cannot waste my time by calling day after 
 day, for so paltry a sum." 
 
 A flush passed over the fine countenance of the man 
 thus rudely addressed. But he replied in the same low 
 tone, which now slightly trembled : 
 
 " I would not ask you to call, sir, if I had the money 
 But what I have not, I cannot give." 
 
 " And pray when will you have the money?" 
 
 The man paused for some time, evidently calculating 
 the future, and after a long-drawn sigh, as if disappointed 
 with the result, said : - 
 
 " It will be two or three months, before I can pay it 
 and even then, it will depend on a contingency." 
 
 " Two or three months ? a contingency 1 It must come 
 quicker and surer than that, sir." 
 
 " That 'is the best I can say." 
 
 " But not the best I can do, I hope. Good-morning." 
 
 After the collector had gone, the man bent his head 
 down, until his face rested even upon the ponderous 
 volume over which he had been poring for hours. He 
 thought, and thought, but thought brought no relief. The 
 
 48 393
 
 394 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 most he could earn was ten dollars a week, and for his 
 children, two sweet babes, and for the comfort of a sick 
 wife, he had to expend the full sum of his wages. The 
 debt for which he was now troubled, was a rent-bill of 
 forty dollars, held against him by a man whose annual 
 income was twenty thousand dollars. Finally, he con 
 cluded to go and see Mr. Moneylove, and try to prevail 
 upon him to stop any proceedings that the collector might 
 institute against him. In the evening, he sought the 
 dwelling of his rich creditor, and after being ushered into 
 his splendid parlour, waited with a troubled heart for his 
 appearance. Mr. Moneylove entered. 
 
 " How do you do, sir ?" 
 
 " How do you do ?" replied the debtor, in a low, trou 
 bled voice. 
 
 The manner of Mr. Moneylove changed, the moment 
 he heard the peculiar tone of his voice, although he did 
 not know him. There was an appealing language in its 
 cadence that whispered a warning to his ear, and he 
 closed his heart on the instant. 
 
 1 Well, sir," were his next words, " what is your will ?" 
 You hold a bill against me for rent." 
 
 ' Well, sir, go to my agent." 
 
 I have seen Mr. ." 
 
 1 That will do, sir. He knows all about my business, 
 and will arrange to my entire satisfaction." 
 
 " But, sir, I cannot pay it now, and he threatens harsh 
 measures." 
 
 " I have entire confidence in his judgment, sir, and am 
 willing to leave all such matters to his discretion." 
 
 " I am in trouble, sir, and in poverty beside, for the 
 demands on me are greater than I can meet." 
 
 " Your own fault, I suppose," retorted the landlord, 
 with a sneer. " That, any one might know, who took 
 half a glance at you." 
 
 This remark caused the blood to mount suddenly to 
 he face of the man. 
 
 " Let me be judged by what I am, not by what I have 
 been," was the meek reply, after the troubled pause of a 
 few moments. Then in a more decided tone of voice, he 
 said : 
 
 " Will you not interfere ?"
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 395 
 
 < Will I? No ! I never interfere with my agent. He 
 gives me entire satisfaction, and while he does so, I shall 
 not interfere." And Mr. Moneylove smiled with self- 
 satisfaction at the idea of his careful and thrifty agent, 
 and his own worldly policy. 
 
 The petitioner slowly left the house murmuring to 
 himself: " Forgive us our debts as ice forgive our debtors." 
 It was more than an hour before he could compose his 
 mind sufficiently to be able to meet his wife with a coun 
 tenance that was not too deeply shadowed with care. 
 She was ill, and besides, under the pressure of many 
 causes, was suffering from a nervous lowness of spirits.' 
 Against this depression, her husband saw that she was 
 striving with all the mental energy she possessed, but 
 striving almost in vain. To know that she even had 
 cause for the exercise of such an internal power, was, to 
 him, painful in the extreme ; and he was bitter in his self- 
 reproaches for being the cause of suffering to one he loved 
 with a pure and fervent love. 
 
 Turning, at last, resolutely towards his dwelling, and 
 striving with a strong effort to keep down the troubles 
 that were sweeping in rough waves over his spirit; it 
 was not long before he set his foot upon his own door- 
 stone. 
 
 To give force to this scene, and to throw around what 
 follows its true interest, it will be necessary to go back 
 and sketch some things in the history of the individual 
 here introduced. 
 
 His name was Theodore Wilmer. In earlier years, he 
 was clerk in the large mercantile house of Rensselaer, 
 Wykoff & Co., in New York. Being a young man of 
 intelligence, good address, and good principles, he was, 
 much esteemed, and valued by his employers, who took 
 some pains to introduce him into society. In this way he 
 was brought into contact with some of the first families 
 in New York, and, in this way, he became acquainted 
 with Constance Jackson, the daughter of a wealthy mer 
 chant. Constance was truly a lovely girl, and one for 
 whom Theodore soon began to entertain feelings akin to 
 love. 
 
 Mr. Jackson, (the father of Constance,) was the son of 
 a man who had begun life in New York, at the very bot-
 
 396 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 torn of fortune's wheel. He was a native of Ireland, and 
 came to this country very poor. For some years, with 
 his pack on his back, he gained a subsistence by vending 
 dry-goods, and unimportant trifles, through the counties 
 and small towns in the vicinity of New York. Gradually 
 he laid up dollar after dollar, until he was able to open a 
 very small shop in Maiden Lane, a kind of t'hread-and- 
 needle store. Careful in his purchases, and constant in 
 his attendance on business, he soon began to find his tens 
 counting hundreds; and but few years rolled away, before 
 his hundreds began to grow into thousands. After a while 
 he took a larger store, and suddenly became known, and 
 respected as " a merchant." At the end of twenty years 
 from the time he carried his pack out of New York, he 
 could write himself worth fifty thousand dollars. Suc 
 cess continued to crown his efforts in business, and when 
 his children came on the stage of active life, they were 
 raised to consider themselves as far superior to mere 
 mechanics, or those who had to labour for their daily 
 bread. 
 
 The father of Constance was the eldest son of old Mr. 
 Jackson, and inherited from him a large share of haughty 
 pride. His wife was out of a family with notions equally 
 aristocratic. Constance was their only child, and they 
 had bestowed no little care in endeavouring to make her 
 the most accomplished young lady in New York. They 
 loved her tenderly, but pride divided with affection their 
 interest in her. She had already declined the hands of 
 two young men of the first families in the city, much to 
 the displeasure of both her parents, when she met Theo 
 dore Wilmer, who resided in the family of Mr. Wykoff, 
 partner in the house that employed the young man in the 
 capacity of clerk. In this family, Constance visited 
 regularly, and the intimacy which sprung up between the 
 young couple, had a chance of maturing into a more per 
 manent affection, before Mr. or Mrs. Jackson had the 
 slightest suspicion of such an event. Indeed, the first 
 knowledge they had of the real state of affairs was obtain 
 ed through Wilmer himself, in the form of an application 
 for the hand of their daughter. It was made to Mr. 
 Jackson, on whom it fell with the unexpected suddenness 
 of a flash from a clear sky in June.
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 397 
 
 " And pray, sir, who are you ?" was his hasty and ex 
 cited answer. 
 
 " Theodore Wilmer, clerk in the house of Rensselaer, 
 Wykoff & Co." 
 
 "Are you really in earnest, young man?" said Mr. 
 Jackson, in a calmer voice, though his lips trembled with 
 suppressed anger. 
 
 ' Never more so in my life, sir." 
 
 ' And does my daughter know of this application?" 
 
 ' She does." 
 
 ' And is it made by her consent?" 
 
 ' Of course." 
 
 The calm, and " of course" manner of the young man 
 was more than the patience of Jackson coXild withstand. 
 Hardly able to contain the indignation that swelled within 
 him, at the presumption of an unknown clerk, thus to ask 
 the hand of his daughter, he paused but a moment, and 
 then seizing Wilmer by the shoulder, and looking him 
 steadily in the face, while he almost foamed with anger, 
 replied thus to his last admission: 
 
 " If that headstrong girl has dared to place her thoughts 
 on you, obscure underling ! and dared, as you say, to 
 consent to accept you, I will cut her off this hour from 
 fortune and affection. I will cast her loose upon the 
 world as unworthy. Go go and never presume to 
 come again into my presence !" 
 
 Opposition, denial, he had expected ; but nothing like 
 this. He had hoped that when the parents saw a fixed 
 resolution on the part of Constance to accept none other, 
 that gradually opposition would be worn away. Such a 
 termination he now saw to be hopeless. 
 
 The father did not seek an immediate interview with 
 his child. Before meeting her, he had found time to 
 reflect upon the real position of affairs. He was well 
 enough taught in the theory,-at least, of a woman's affec 
 tions. He had heard of instances where opposition in a 
 love affair had only added fuel to the flame ; and one or 
 two such cases had fallen under his own eye. He, there 
 fore, decided to make no present show of opposition, and 
 on no consideration to allow her to know of the interview 
 that had occurred between her lover and himself. Mrs. 
 Jackson, entering into her husband's view and feelings,
 
 399 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 took upon herself the task of watching and silently con 
 trolling all the movements of her daughter. Particular 
 care was taken to prevent her visiting the family of Mr 
 Wykoff. 
 
 "Where are you going, love?" said her mother, to he. 
 the next day after that of the interview, as Constance 
 came out of her room, dressed for a walk. 
 
 " I promised to walk with Laura Wykoff, ma, and an- 
 going to call for her." 
 
 " 1 was just going to send for you to dress for a walk 
 with me ; I want to make a call to-day on Madame Boyer. 
 And this afternoon I am to spend with Mrs. Claxton and 
 her five daughters, and you must go along, of course. 
 So you will have to postpone your walk with Laura to 
 day." 
 
 If it had only been the walk with Laura Wykoff, Con 
 stance would not have hesitated a moment, but her heart 
 almost ached with suspense to know from Theodore the 
 result of his interview with her father. He had promised 
 to leave a note for her with Laura, who was their mutual 
 confidante. The mother, of course, noticed an air of 
 regret at her disappointment, and ingeniously remarked 
 
 " So you would rather walk with Miss Wykoff, than 
 your mother?" 
 
 The tears started into the eyes of Constance, and 
 twining her arms around the neck of her mother, she 
 murmured, 
 
 " No, no, dear mother ! How could you think so ?" 
 
 Hiding her anxious desire to know the result of that 
 interview upon which hung her fate, she passed with 
 apparent cheerfulness through the weary day; and late 
 at night sought her pillow from which sleep had fled. 
 
 On the next morning, much to her distress of mind, 
 she learned that a visit of a few weeks to a relation in 
 Albany had been suddenly determined upon, and that in 
 company with her mother she had to set off in the first 
 boat that day. Her suspicions were at once roused as to 
 the real cause for this hasty movement, and she determin 
 ed to write to Theodore immediately on her arrival at 
 Albany. 
 
 The beautiful scenery of the Hudson was unappreciat 
 ed by one eye of the many brilliant ones that looked out
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 399 
 
 from the majestic boat, that, in the language of Carlyle, 
 " travelled on fire-wings," through the looming highlands. 
 The watchful mother strove hard to divert the mind of 
 her child, but in vain. Her heart was away from the 
 present reality ; and no effort of her own could bring it 
 back. It was night when the boat arrived, and no chance 
 offered for writing before retiring to bed. It seemed, 
 indeed, as if the mother, suspicious that some communica 
 tion would be made in this way, kept so about Constance 
 all the next day, that she had no chance of dropping 
 Theodore even a line to say where she was, and that she 
 still remembered him with affection. And the next day 
 passed in the same way; not an hour, not a moment 
 could she get for privacy or uninterrupted self-communion. 
 At last she determined to write to Laura Wykoff, to 
 which, of course, her mother could make no objection. 
 But she dared rtot mention the name of Theodore, or 
 allude to her present restrained condition, except remotely, 
 for fear that her mother would ask to see the letter. This 
 letter was given to a servant to convey to the post-office, 
 in the presence of her mother. It never reached its 
 destination. And the mother knew well the reason why. 
 In it, she asked an immediate answer. Day after day 
 passed, and no answer came. She wrote again, and with 
 the same success. Finally, she gained a few minutes to 
 pen a line or two to Theodore, which she concealed, sus 
 pecting that there was something wrong about the trans 
 mission of the letters, until a chance offered for having it 
 certainly placed in the right channel of conveyance. 
 This note reached Theodore, and removed a mountain 
 from his feelings. He had learned of her hasty journey 
 to Albany, but this was all he could ascertain, and sus 
 pecting the cause, his mind was in a state of racking and 
 painful suspense. 
 
 Day after day passed, until a month had expired, and 
 still there was no indication of a movement to return 
 home. Once or twice a week her father would come up 
 from New York, and to the persuasions of the relatives 
 at whose house they were visiting, half-consented that 
 Constance and her mother should stay all summer. Final 
 ly, it was decided, that Albany should be their place of 
 residence for some months.
 
 400 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 Things assuming this decided appearance, Constance 
 now set herself resolutely to work to circumvent her 
 mother's careful surveillance. It was the first time in her 
 life that she had seriously determined to act towards the 
 parent she had so long and so tenderly loved, with dupli 
 city. All at once she became more cheerful, and seemed 
 to enter with a joyful spirit into every plan proposed for 
 spending the time pleasantly. With a sprightly cousin, a 
 young girl of her own age, she cultivated a close inti 
 macy, and finding her somewhat romantic and indepen 
 dent, finally confided to her the secret that was wearing 
 into her heart from concealment. Readily did Ellen 
 Raymond enter into the scheme she at last proposed, 
 which was to write to Theodore, and give the letter into 
 her charge. It was promptly conveyed to the post-office. 
 Theodore was directed to address Ellen, and in the 
 envelope to enclose a letter for Constance. On the third 
 day, the young ladies took a walk, and in their way call 
 ed at the post-office. A letter was handed out to Ellen, 
 and on breaking the seal, another appeared addressed to 
 Constance. She did not dare to open it in the street, but 
 retired to a confectioner's, and while Ellen was tasting 
 an ice-cream, Constance was devouring, with eager eyes, 
 the first love-token she had ever received from Theodore 
 Wilmer. 
 
 This was the beginning of a correspondence which 
 was regularly kept up through the summer, of all of 
 which both father and mother remained profoundly 
 ignorant. They were delighted to see their daughter so 
 soon recover from the first deep depression of spirits which 
 was occasioned by their sudden removal from New York, 
 but little suspected the cause. Less and less carefully did 
 the mother watch her daughter, and more frequently were 
 the two young friends alone in their chambers, even for 
 hours together. Such times were not spent idly by Con 
 stance. Thus the very means separation resorted to 
 by Mr. Jackson and his wife, to wean the mind of their 
 daughter from the " low-born" Wilmer, only proved, from 
 not having been thoroughly carried out, that which bound 
 them together in heart for ever. Give two lovers, pen, 
 ink, and paper, and their love will defy time and distance. 
 The thousand expressed fond regards, and weariness of
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 401 
 
 absence, endear each to each; and imagination, from 
 affection, invests each with new and undiscovered perfec 
 tions. 
 
 Three months had passed away since the hasty journey 
 from New York, and supposing Constance to be thorough 
 ly weaned from her foolish preference for a poor clerk, 
 for she was now cheerful, and expressed no wish to re 
 turn the parents proposed to go back to the city. Pre 
 paration was accordingly made, and in a few days Con 
 stance found herself, with a yearning desire to get home 
 again, gliding swiftly along the smooth surface of the 
 Hudson. She had not failed to inform Theodore of her 
 return, and as the boat swept up to the wharf, her quick 
 eye caught his eager face bending over towards her. A 
 glance of glad, and yet painful recognition passed between 
 them, and in the next moment he had disappeared in the 
 living mass of human beings. 
 
 For some time she was closely watched; but she care 
 fully lulled suspicion, and at last succeeded in managing 
 to get short and stolen interviews with Wilmer. Their 
 first meeting was at a young friend's, to whom she had 
 confided her secret: this was not Laura Wykoff, for 
 her mother had managed to fall out with her family, 
 so as to have a good plea for denying to Constance the 
 privilege of visiting her. Regularly did the lovers meet, 
 about once every week, at this friend's; and, encouraged 
 by her, they finally took the hazardous and decisive step 
 of getting married clandestinely. 
 
 Three days after this event, Wilmer entered the store 
 of the merchants in whose service he had been for years, 
 for the purpose of resuming his regular duties which had 
 been briefly interrupted. He was met by the senior 
 partner, with a manner that chilled him to the heart. 
 
 " Is Mr. Wykoff in ?" he asked. 
 
 " No," was the cold reply. 
 
 " He has not left town ?" 
 
 " Yes. He went to New Orleans yesterday, and will 
 not return for two or three months." 
 
 " Did he leave a letter for me ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 Then came an embarrassing silence of some moments 
 which was broken by Wilmer's saying 
 
 49
 
 402 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 " I suppose that I can resume my duties, as usual ?" 
 
 "We have supplied your place," was the answer to 
 this. 
 
 Quick as thought, the young man turned away,- and 
 left the store, his mind all in confusion. In marrying 
 Constance in opposition to her parents' wishes, he did so 
 with a feeling of pride in the internal power, and external 
 facilities, which he possessed for rising rapidly in the 
 world, and showing ere long to old Mr. Jackson, that he 
 could stand upon an equal social eminence with himself. 
 How suddenly was this feeling of proud confidence dash 
 ed to the earth ! The external facilities upon which he 
 had based his anticipations were to be found in the friend 
 ship and ample means of the house of Rensselaer, Wykoff 
 & Co. That friendship had been suddenly withdrawn, 
 evidently in strong disapprobation of what he had done. 
 
 As he turned away, and walked slowly along, he knew 
 not and scarcely cared whither, a feeling of deep des 
 pondency took possession of his mind. From a proud 
 consciousness of ability to rise rapidly in the world, and 
 show to the friends of Constance that she had not chosen 
 one really beneath her, he sunk into that gloomy and 
 depressing state of mind in which we experience a pain 
 ful inability to do anything, while deeply sensible that 
 unusual efforts are required at our hands. The thought 
 of not being able to lift his wife above the obscure con 
 dition in which he must now inevitably remain, at least 
 for a long time, seemed as if it would drive him mad. 
 Passing slowly along, wrapped thus in gloomy medita 
 tions, he was suddenly aroused by a hand upon his arm, 
 and a cheerful voice, saying 
 
 " Give us your hand, Theodore ! Here *s a hearty 
 shake, and a hearty congratulation at the same time! 
 Run oft' with that purse-proud old curmudgeon's daugh 
 ter! Ha! ha ! I like you for that! You're a man of met 
 tle. But, halloo! What's the matter? You look as grave 
 as a barn-door, on the shady side. Not repenting, already, 
 I hope 7" 
 
 " Yes, Henry, I am repenting of that rash act from the 
 very bottom of my heart." 
 
 " 0, no ! Don't talk in that way, Theodore. Constance
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 403 
 
 is one of the sweetest girls in the city, and will make you 
 a lovely wife. There are hundreds who envy you." 
 
 " They need not ; for this is the most wretched hour 
 of my life." 
 
 " Why, what in the world is the matter, Wilmer "?" his 
 friend replied to this. " You look as if you had buried 
 instead of married a wife. But come, you want a glass 
 of something to revive you. Let us step in here. I am 
 a little dry myself." 
 
 Without hesitation or reply, Wilmer entered a drinking- 
 house, with the young man, where they retired to a box, 
 and ordered brandy and water. After this had been 
 taken in silence, the friend, whose name was Wilbert 
 Arnold, said 
 
 " The state of mind in which I find you, Theodore, 
 surprises and pains me greatly. If it is not trespassing 
 too far upon private matters, I should like very much to 
 know the reason. I ask, because I feel now, and always 
 have felt, much interest in you." 
 
 It was some time before Wilmer replied to this. At 
 length, he said 
 
 " The cause of my present state of mind is of such 
 recent occurrence, and I have become so bewildered in 
 consequence of it, that I can scarcely rally my thoughts 
 sufficiently to reply to your kind inquiries. Suffice it to 
 say, that, in consequence, I presume, of my having run 
 off with Mr. Jackson's daughter, I have lost a good situa 
 tion, and the best of friends. I am, therefore, thrown 
 upon the world at this very crisis, like a sailor cast 
 upon the ocean, with but a plank to sustain himself, and 
 keep his head above the waves. When I married Miss 
 Jackson, it was with the resolution to rise rapidly, and 
 show to the world that she had not chosen thoughtlessly. 
 Of course, I expected the aid of Rensselaer, Wykoff &" 
 Co. Their uniform kindness towards me seemed a sure 
 guarantee for this aid. But the result has been, not only 
 their estrangement from me, but my dismissal from their 
 service. And now, what to do, or where to turn my 
 self, I do not know. Really I feel desperate !" 
 
 " That is bad, truly," Arnold rejoined, musingly, after 
 Wilmer had ceased speaking. Then ringing a little hard- 
 bell that stood upon the table, he ordered the waiter, vf'u
 
 404 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 obeyed the summons, to bring some more brandy. No 
 thing further was said until the brandy was served, of 
 which both of the young men partook freely. 
 
 " What do you intend doing ?" Arnold at length asked, 
 looking his friend in the face. 
 
 " I wish you would answer that question for me, for 
 it 's more than I can do," was the gloomy response. 
 
 " You must endeavour to rise in the world. It will 
 never do to bring Constance down to the comparatively 
 mean condition in which a clerk with a small salary is 
 compelled to live." 
 
 " That I know, too well. But how am I to prevent it? 
 That is what drives me almost beside myself." 
 
 " You must hit upon some expedient for making money 
 fast." 
 
 " I know of no honest expedients." 
 
 ' I think that I do." 
 
 "Name one." 
 
 " Do you know Hardville ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He came as near failure as could possibly be, last 
 week." 
 
 "He did?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And how did he get through ?" 
 
 " It is the answer to that question which I wish you to 
 consider. He was saved from ruin in the last extremity, 
 and by what some would call a desperate expedient. 
 Your case is a desperate one, and, if you would save 
 yourself, you must resort to desperate expedients, like- 
 wise." 
 
 " Name the expedient." 
 
 " Hardville had one thousand dollars to pay, more than 
 he could possibly raise. He tried everywhere, but to no 
 purpose. He could neither borrow nor collect that sum. 
 In a moment of desperation, he put one hundred dollars 
 into his pocket, and went to a regular establishment near 
 here, and staked that sum at play. In two hours he came 
 away with twelve hundred dollars in his pocket, instead 
 of one hundred. And thus he was saved from ruin." 
 
 When Arnold ceased speaking, Wilmer looked him in
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 405 
 
 the face with a steady, stern, half-angry look, but made 
 no reply. 
 
 " Try another glass of this brandy," the former said, 
 pouring out a pretty liberal supply for each. Mechani 
 cally, Wilmer put the glass to his lips, and turned off the 
 contents. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of that plan ?" asked the 
 friend, after each had sat musing for some time. 
 
 " I am not a gambler !" was the reply. 
 
 " Of course not. But your case, as I said, and as you 
 admit, is a desperate one ; and requires desperate reme 
 dies. The fact of your going to a regular establishment, 
 and gaining there, in an honourable way, something, as 
 a capital to begin with, does not make you a gambler. 
 After you have got a start, you needn't go there any 
 more. And all you want is a start. Give you that, and, 
 my word for it, you will make your way in the world 
 with the best of them." 
 
 " O, yes ! Give me a start, as you say, and I '11 go 
 ahead as fast as anybody. Give me that start, and I '11 
 show old Mr. Jackson in a few years that I can count 
 dollars with him all day." 
 
 " Exactly. And that start you must have. Now, how 
 are you going to get it, unless in the way that I suggest ?" 
 
 " I am not so sure that I can get it in that way." 
 
 " I am, then. Only make the trial. You owe it to 
 your wife to do so. For her sake, then, let me urge you 
 to act promptly and efficiently." 
 
 Thus tempted, while his mind was greatly obscured by 
 the strong potations he had taken, Theodore Wilmer 
 began to waver. It did not seem half so wrong, nor half 
 so disgraceful, to play for money, as it did at first. Final 
 ly, he agreed to meet his friend that evening, and get 
 introduced to some one of the many gambling establish 
 ments that infest all large cities. 
 
 A reaction in his feelings now took place. The elation 
 of mind caused by the brandy, made him confident of 
 success. He saw before him a rapid elevation to wealth 
 and standing in society, and, consequently, a rapid resto 
 ration of Constance to the circle in which she had moved. 
 Before marriage, he had rented a handsome house, and 
 had it furnished in very good style, upon means which he
 
 406 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 had prudently saved from a liberal salary. Into this, he 
 at once introduced his young wife, who had already begun 
 to feelher heart yearning for her mother's voice, and her 
 mother's smile. One young friend had been with her all 
 the morning, but had left towards the middle of the day 
 Alone, for the first time, since her hurried marriage, her 
 feelings became somewhat saddened in their hue. But 
 as the hour approached for her husband to come home, 
 those feelings gave place, in a degree, to an ardent desire 
 for his return, the result of deep and fervent love for him. 
 She had sat for some moments, expecting to hear him at 
 the door, when the bell rung, and she started to her feet, 
 and stood on the floor, ready to spring forward the mo 
 ment he should enter the room. No one, however, came 
 in, and her heart sunk in her bosom with the disappoint 
 ment. In a moment after, the servant handed her a note, 
 the seal of which she broke hastily. It was from her 
 husband, and ran thus : 
 
 "DEAR CONSTANCE: An accumulation of business in 
 my absence so presses upon me now, that I cannot possi 
 bly come so great a distance to dinner, at least for this 
 day. It may likewise keep me away until eight or nine 
 o'clock this evening. But keep a good heart, dear; our 
 meeting will be pleasanter for the long absence Adieu, 
 
 THEODORE." 
 
 The note dropped from her hand, and she sank into a 
 chair, overcome with a feeling of strong disappointment. 
 To wait until eight or nine o'clock in the evening, before 
 she should see him, when the morning had appeared 
 lengthened to a day ! O, it seemed as if she could not 
 endure the wearisome interval ! 
 
 As for Wilmer, the truth was, he found himself so much 
 under the influence of the liberal quantity of brandy which 
 he had taken, that he dared not go home to Constance. 
 He would not have appeared before her as he was, for 
 the world. It was under the consciousness of his condi 
 tion, that he wrote the billet, which his young wife had 
 received. After doing so, he went to bed at a public 
 house, and slept until towards evening. When he awoke, 
 Arnold was sitting in the chamber. Some feelings of 
 bitter regret for the pains which his absence must have 
 caused his young wife, passed through his mind, as he
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 407 
 
 aroused himself. These were soon drowned by a few 
 glasses of wine, which his friend had already ordered to 
 be sent up. That friend, let it here be remarked, was not 
 a professed gambler nor had he any sinister designs in 
 urging on Wilmer as he was doing. But he was a man 
 of loose morals, and, therefore, really believed that he 
 was doing him a service in urging him to make an effort 
 to get upon his feet by means of the gambling-table. 
 Knowing the young man's high-toned feelings and how 
 utterly he must, from his character, condemn anything 
 like play, he had purposely sought to obscure his percep 
 tions by inducing him to drink freely. In this, he had 
 succeeded. 
 
 As soon as night had thrown her dark shadows over 
 the city, the two young men took their steps towards one 
 of those haunts, known, too appropriately, by the name 
 of " hells." At eight o'clock, Theodore went in, with 
 two hundred dollars in his pocket all the money he pos 
 sessed ; and at ten o'clock, came out penniless. 
 
 Lonely and long was the afternoon to the young bride, 
 giving opportunity to many thoughts of a sober, and even 
 saddening nature. Evening came at last, and then night 
 with its deeper gloom. Eight o'clock arrived, and nine, 
 but her husband did not return. And then the minutes 
 slowly passed, until the clock struck ten. 
 
 " O, where can he be !" Constance ejaculated, rising to 
 her feet, and beginning to pace the room to and fro, paus 
 ing every moment to listen to the sound of passing foot 
 steps. Thus she continued for the space of something 
 like half an hour, when she sunk exhausted upon a chair. 
 It was twelve o'clock when he at length came in. As he 
 opened the door, his young wife sprung to his side, ex 
 claiming 
 
 " O, Theodore ! Theodore ! Why have you staid away 
 so very long?" 
 
 As she said this, he staggered against her, almost throw 
 ing her over, and then passed on to the parlors without 
 a word in return to her earnest and affectionate greet 
 ing- 
 Poor Constance was stunned for the moment. But she 
 quickly recovered, her woman's heart nerving itself in 
 voluntarily, and followed after her husband. He had
 
 408 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 thrown himself upon a sofa, and sat, half-reclining, with 
 his head upon his bosom. 
 
 " Are you sick, dear Theodore ?" his young wife asked, 
 in a tone of deep and earnest affection, laying her hand 
 upon him, and bending down and kissing his forehead. 
 
 " Yes, I am sick, Constance," was the half-stupid 
 reply 
 
 "Come, then, let me assist you up to bed. A good 
 night's rest will do you good," she said, gently urging him 
 to rise. 
 
 She understood perfectly his condition. She knew that 
 it was intoxication. But while it pained her young heart 
 deeply, it awoke in her bosom no feelings of alarm. She 
 felt convinced that it was the result of accident, and had 
 no expectation of ever again seeing its recurrence. She 
 asked him if he were sick, to spare him the mortification 
 of knowing that she perceived the true nature of his in 
 disposition. 
 
 Thus urged, he at once arose, and supported by the 
 weak arm of his young wife, slowly ascended the stairs, 
 and entered his chamber. It was not many minutes before 
 his senses Were locked in profound slumber. 
 
 Not so, however, Constance. The earnestness with 
 which she had looked for evening to come, that she might 
 again see the face, and hear the voice of her husband, 
 had greatly excited her mind. This excitement was 
 increased by the condition in which he had so unexpectedly 
 returned. The effect was, to keep her awake, in spite of 
 strong efforts to sink away into sleep. Many sad and 
 desponding thoughts forced themselves upon her, as she 
 lay, hour after hour, in a state of half-waking conscious 
 ness. It was nearly day-dawn, when, from all this, she 
 found relief in a deep slumber. 
 
 The next day was one of heart-aching reflections to 
 Theodore Wilmer. In his eager, but half-insane effort to 
 elevate himself rapidly for the sake of his young wife, he 
 had sunk into actual want, and not only forfeited his own 
 self-respect, but degraded himself, he felt, in the eyes of 
 her whose love was dearer to him than life. 
 
 The events of two years must now be passed over, 
 with but a brief notice. There will be enough in the
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 4Q9 
 
 after history of Wilmer and his young wife, to awaken 
 the reader's keenest sympathies, without unveiling the 
 particular incidents of this period. 
 
 Suffice it, then, to say, that the first night's experience 
 at the gambling-table was not enough to satisfy Wilmer, 
 that it was neither the right way, nor the most successful 
 way of elevating himself in the world. So anxious did 
 he feel on account of Constance, that be borrowed money 
 of his false friend Arnold, on the evening of the very 
 next day, and after drinking, freely, to nerve himself up, 
 sought again the gambling-table. At ten o'clock, he left, 
 the winner by fifty dollars. He left thus early on account 
 of his wife, who would be, he knew, anxiously looking 
 for his return. This encouraged him to go on, and he did 
 go on. But he could never feel sanguine of success, or 
 be able to still the troubled whispers within, until he had 
 drunken freely. Of course, he was every day more or 
 less under the influence of liquor. For a year, he 
 managed, in this way, to keep up the style of living in 
 which he had commenced, but he could get nothing ahead. 
 None could imagine how this was done, for the young 
 man was exceedingly cautious. He looked to some good 
 turn of fortune by which he should be enabled to abandon 
 for ever a course of life that he hated and despised. No 
 such lucky turn, however, met his anxious expectations. 
 After the first year of this course of life, his health, which 
 had never been very good, began rapidly to fail. His 
 cheeks became hollow, and a racking cough began to 
 show itself. Still he went on keeping late hours, and 
 drinking more and more freely, while his mind was all 
 the time upon the rack. Towards the close of the second 
 year, he was taken down with a severe illness, the result 
 of all this abuse of mind and body. He lingered long 
 upon the brink of the grave ; but the little energy which 
 his system retained, rallied at last, and he began slowly 
 to recover. During convalescence, he had full time for 
 reflection. For full two years, he had been almost con 
 stantly so much under the influence of brandy, as really 
 to be unable to think rationally upon any subject, and he 
 had, in consequence, pursued a course of life, injurious, 
 both to his own moral and physical health, and to the 
 happiness of her for whom he would, at any moment of 
 
 50
 
 410 THE FIERJf TRIAL. 
 
 that time, have sacrificed everything, even life itself. In 
 rising from that bed of sickness, it was with a solemn 
 vow never again to enter a gaming-house, and never 
 again to touch the bewildering poison that had been the 
 secondary, if not, indeed, the primary cause of two years' 
 folly nay, madness. 
 
 And Constance, what of her all that time? the reader 
 asks. It would be a difficult task to give even a feeble 
 idea of all she patiently endured, and of all she suffered. 
 Not once in that long period did she either see or hear 
 from her parents. Three or four times had she written 
 to them, but no answer was returned. At last she ven 
 tured, under the yearning anxiety that she felt once more 
 to see her mother, and to hear the voice that lingered in 
 her memory like old familiar music, to go to her, and ask 
 her forgiveness and her love. But she was coldly and 
 cruelly repulsed not even being permitted to gain her 
 mother's presence. 
 
 In regard to her husband, her love was like a deep, 
 pure stream. Its course was never troubled by passion, 
 or obstructed in its onward course. Though he would 
 come home often and often in a state of stupor from 
 drink though it was rarely earlier than midnight when 
 he returned to make glad with his presence her watching 
 and waiting heart, she never felt a reproaching thought. 
 And to her, his words, and tones, and manner, were ever 
 full of tenderness. Deeply did he love her and for her 
 sake more than for his own, was he struggling thus 
 against a powerful current, daily exhausting his strength, 
 without moving onward. 
 
 Thus much, briefly, of those two years of toil, and 
 struggle, and pain. On recovering, with a shattered con 
 stitution, from the serious attack of illness that had re 
 sulted from the abuse of himself during that period, Wil- 
 mer felt compelled to give up his fondly-cherished ideas 
 of rising with Constance to the position from which he 
 had dragged her down, and to be content with a humbler 
 lot. He, therefore, sought, and obtained a situation as 
 clerk, at a salary of eight hundred dollars per annum. 
 Already he had been compelled to move into a smaller 
 house than the one at first taken, and in this he was now 
 able to remain.
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 4H 
 
 But seeing, with a clearer vision than before, Wil- 
 mer perceived that much of the bloom had faded from 
 his wife's young cheek, and that her heart had not ceased 
 to yearn for the home and loved ones of her earlier 
 years. 
 
 Another year passed away, and during the whole of 
 that time not one word of kindness or censure reached 
 the ears of Constance from her parents. They seemed 
 to have not only cast her off, but to have forgotten the 
 fact of her existence. To a mind like that of Theodore 
 Wilmer's, any condition in which a beloved one was 
 made to suffer keenly, and as he believed, alone, through 
 him, could not be endured without serious inroads upon a 
 shattered constitution; and much to his alarm, by the end 
 of this year he found that he was less able than usual to 
 attend through the whole day to the fatiguing duties of 
 the counting-room. Frequently he would return home at 
 night with a pain in his breast, that often continued ac 
 companied by a troublesome cough through a greater part 
 of the night. The morning, too, often found him feverish 
 and debilitated, and with no appetite. 
 
 The engrossing love of a mother for her first-born, re 
 lieved, during this year, in a great degree, the aching void 
 of Constance Wilmer's breast. The face of her sweet 
 babe often reflected a smile of deep, heart-felt happiness, 
 lighting up, ere it faded away into the sober cast of 
 thought, a feeble ray upon the face of her husband. The 
 steady lapse of days, and weeks, and months, brought a 
 steady development of the mind and body of their little 
 one. He was the miniature image of his father, with 
 eyes, in which Wilmer could see all the deep love which 
 lay in the dark depths of those that had won his first 
 affections. Happy would they have been but (who would 
 not be happy were it not for that little word ?) for one 
 yearning desire in the heart of Constance for the lost love 
 of her mother but for the trembling fear of want that 
 stared Theodore daily in the face. His salary as clerk 
 was small, and to live in New York cost them no trifle. 
 At last, owing to the failure of the house by which he 
 was employed, the dreaded event came. He was out of 
 a situation, and found it impossible to obtain one. The 
 failure had been a very bad one, and there was a strong
 
 412 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 suspicion of unfair dealing. The prejudice against the 
 house, extended even to the clerks, and several of them, 
 finding it very difficult to get other places that suited 
 them, left New York for other cities. One of them, a 
 friend to Wilmer, came to Baltimore, and got into a large 
 house ; a vacancy soon occurring, he recommended Wil- 
 rner, who was sent for. He came at once, for neither to 
 him nor his wife was there anything attractive in New 
 York. His salary was to be five hundred dollars. 
 
 In removing to Baltimore, he took with him the greater 
 part of the furniture that he had at first purchased, some 
 of which was of a superior quality. There he rented a 
 small house, and endeavoured by the closest economy to 
 make his meagre salary sufficient to meet every want. 
 But this seemed impossible. 
 
 Gradually, every year he found himself getting behind 
 hand, from fifty to sixty dollars. The birth of a second 
 child added to his expenses ; and the failing health of his 
 wife, increased them still more. Finally, he got in arrears 
 with the agent of Mr. Moneylove, his landlord. At this 
 time, an apparently rapid decline had become developed 
 in the system of his wife, and on the night on which he 
 had appealed to this person's feelings of humanity, as men 
 tioned in the opening of the story, he found her, on his 
 return, extremely ill. A high fever had set in, and she 
 was suffering much from difficult respiration. The phy 
 sician must, of course, be called in, even though but the 
 day before he had put off his collector for the tenth time. 
 Sad, from many causes, he turned again from the door of 
 his dwelling, and sought the physician. 
 
 He rang the bell, and waited with a throbbing heart, 
 for the appearance of the man he earnestly desired, and 
 yet dreaded to see. When he heard his step upon the 
 stairs, his cheek began to burn, and he even trembled as 
 a criminal might be supposed to tremble in the presence 
 of his judge. For a moment he thought only of his un 
 paid bill, in the next of his suffering wife. The physician 
 entered. Theodore hesitated, and spoke in a low, timid 
 voice, as he requested a call that night upon his wife. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Wilmer very ill ?" inquired the physician, in 
 a kind voice. 
 
 " I fear seriously so, sir."
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 413 
 
 " How long has she been sick 1" 
 
 " It has been several weeks since she complained of a 
 pain in her side ; and all that time she has been troubled 
 with a hard cough. For the last few days she has hard 
 ly been able to move about, and to-night she is in a high 
 fever, and finds great difficulty in breathing." 
 
 " Then she must be attended to, at once. Why did you 
 not call before, Mr. Wilmer 1 Such delays, you know, 
 are very dangerous." 
 
 "I do I do but" Wilmer hesitated, and looked 
 
 troubled and confused. 
 
 "But what, Mr. Wilmer ?" urged the physician in the 
 kindest manner. 
 
 "I I I have not been able to pay your last bill, 
 much as I have desired it. My salary is small, and I find 
 it very difficult to get along." 
 
 " Still, my dear sir, health and life are of great value. 
 And besides, if you had called in a physician at the 
 earliest stage of Mrs. Wilmer's illness, you might have 
 saved much expense, as well as spared her much suffer 
 ing. But cheer up, sir ; bright sunshine always succeeds 
 the cloud and the storm. I shall be glad to have my bill 
 when it is convenient, and not before. Don't let it cause 
 you an uneasy moment." 
 
 The kind manner of the physician soothed his feelings, 
 and the prompt visit, and prompt relief given, softened 
 the stern anguish of his troubled spirit. The bruised reed 
 is never broken. When the stricken heart is tried, it is 
 never beyond the point of endurance. 
 
 In no instance had Wilmer drawn from his employers 
 more than his regular salary, no matter how pressing 
 were his necessities. Beyond the contract he had enter 
 tained no desire to go, but strove, in everything, to keep 
 down his expenses to his slender income. Now, however, 
 in view of the threat made by the collector of rents, after 
 having thought and thought about it until bewildered with 
 a distressing sense of his almost hopeless condition, he 
 came to the resolution to ask an advance of fifty dollars, 
 to be kept back from his regular wages, at the rate of 
 five dollars a month. For some hours he pondered this 
 plan in his mind, and obtained much relief from the im 
 aginary execution of it. But when the moment came to
 
 414 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 ask the favour, his heart sank within him, and his lips were 
 sealed. In alternate struggles like this, the morning of 
 the first day passed, after his interview with Mr. Money- 
 love, and still he had not been able to prefer his humble 
 request. When he went home to dine, in consequence of 
 the continued perturbation of his mind for hours, he was 
 pale and nervous, with no inclination for food. To add 
 to his distress of mind, his oldest child, now a fine boy of 
 four summers, had been taken extremely ill since morn 
 ing, and the anxiety consequent upon it, had painfully 
 excited the feeble system of his wife. Another visit from 
 the physician became necessary, and was promptly made. 
 
 Frequently, in consequence of pressing calls at home, 
 he had been almost forced to remain longer away from 
 his place of business at dinner-time, than was customary 
 for the clerks. On this day, two hours had glided by 
 when his hasty foot entered the store, on his return from 
 dinner. His fears of a distraint for rent were greatly 
 heightened in consequence of the increased illness of his 
 family, and as the only way to prevent it that had occur 
 red to his mind, was to obtain from his employers a loan 
 of fifty dollars as just mentioned, he had fully made up 
 his mind to waive all feeling and at once name his 
 request. Two hours we have said had expired since he 
 \vent home to dine. On his entering the counting-room, 
 the senior partner of the house drew out his watch, and 
 remarked, rather angrily, that he could not permit such 
 neglect of duty in a clerk, and that unless he kept better 
 hours, he must look for another place. 
 
 It was some time before the confusion of his mind, con 
 sequent upon this censure and threat, subsided sufficiently 
 to allow him to feel keenly the utter prostration of the 
 last expectation for help, that had arisen like an angel of 
 hope, in what seemed the darkest hour of his fate. And 
 bitter indeed, were then his thoughts. Those who have 
 never felt it, cannot imagine the awful distress which the 
 mind feels, while contemplating the wants of those who 
 are dearer than all the world, without possessing the 
 means of relieving them. At times, there is a wild ex 
 citement, an imaginary consciousness of power to do all 
 things ; too quickly, alas ! succeeded by the chilling cer 
 tainty tnat honestly and honourably it can do nothing.
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 415 
 
 Slowly and painfully passed the hours until nightfall, 
 and then Wilmer again sought with hasty steps the nest 
 that sheltered his beloved ones. Alas ! the spoiler had 
 been there. True to his threat, the agent of Mr. Money- 
 love had taken quick means to get his own. All of his 
 furniture had been seized, and not only seized, but nearly 
 everything, except a bed and a few chairs, removed in his 
 absence. 
 
 "O, Constance, what is the meaning of this?" was his 
 agonized question, to his weeping wife, who met him ill 
 as she was at the door, and hid her face in his bosom, 
 like a dove seeking protection. 
 
 " I cannot tell, Theodore. Everything has been carried 
 off under distraint for rent, so they said, who came here. 
 But you do not owe any rent, do you? I am sure you 
 never mentioned it." 
 
 " It is too true too true," was his only answer. Care 
 fully had Wilmer concealed from his wife all his troubles. 
 He could not think of adding one pang more to the heart 
 that had already suffered so much on his account. Wise 
 ly he did not act in this, but few can blame the weakness 
 that shrunk from giving pain to a beloved object. There 
 are few who have not, sometime in life, found themselves 
 in situations of trial and distress, in which nothing was 
 left them but submission. In that very condition did this 
 lonely family, strangers in a strange place, find themselves 
 on this night of strong trial. They experienced a ray of 
 comfort, and that was the apparent healthy re-action in 
 the system of their sick child. With this to cheer them, 
 they gathered their two little ones with them in their only 
 bed, and slept soundly through the night. 
 
 Their servant had' left them the day before, and they 
 were spared the mortification of having such a witness 
 of their humiliation. Mrs. Wilmer found it somewhat 
 difficult to prepare their food on the next morning, as even 
 her kitchen furniture had nearly all shared the fate of the 
 rest, and she found herself very feeble. Something like 
 three hundred dollars worth had been taken for a debt of 
 forty or fifty. The slender breakfast over, with the repri 
 mand of the .day before painfully fresh in his mind, Wil 
 mer hastened away to the counting-room. He had only 
 been a few moments at the desk, when the partner who
 
 416 THE FIERY TRIAL 
 
 had spoken to him the day before, came up with the 
 morning's paper in his hand, and pointing to an advertise 
 ment of a sale of furniture seized for rent due by Theo 
 dore Wilmer, asked him if he was the person named. 
 Wilmer looked at him for some moments, vainly attempt 
 ing to reply, his face exhibiting the most painful emotions 
 finally, he laid his head upon the desk without a word, 
 and gave way to tears. It was a weakness, but he was 
 not then superior to it. 
 
 " How much do you owe for rent?" 
 
 " Forty dollars." 
 
 " Forty dollars ! And is it for this sum alone that your 
 furniture has been taken ?" 
 
 " That is all I owe for rent." 
 
 " Then why did you not let us know your condition ? 
 You should have had more consideration for your family." 
 
 "Yesterday, sir," Wilmer replied, somewhat bitterly, 
 " I came here from dinner, after having been unavoidably 
 detained with a sick child, resolved to conquer my reluc 
 tance, and ask for the loan of fifty dollars, to be deducted 
 from my salary, at the rate of five dollars a month. But 
 your reproof for remissness deterred me. And when I 
 returned home, the work had been done. They have left 
 us but a bed, a few chairs, and a common table. Oh, sir, 
 it seems as if it would kill me !" 
 
 " But, my dear sir, when I complained, you owed it to 
 yourself, and you owed it to me, to explain. How could 
 I know your peculiar situation ?" 
 
 "Have you ever felt, sir, that no one cared for you? 
 As if even Heaven had forgotten you ? If not, then you 
 cannot understand my feelings. It may be wrong, but 
 always meaning to act justly towards every one, I feel so 
 humbled by accusation, that I have no heart to explain. 
 It seems to me that others should know that I would not 
 wrong them." 
 
 " It certainly is wrong, Mr. Wilmer. Suppose you had 
 simply mentioned yesterday the illness of your child ; I 
 should at once have withdrawn my censure, and probably 
 have made some kind inquiry ; you would then have been 
 more free to prefer your request, which would have been 
 at once granted. See what it would have saved your 
 family." Q
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 417 
 
 " I see it all. Feeling always obscures the judgment." 
 
 " To one in your particular situation, a right knowledge 
 
 of the truth you have just uttered is all-important. No 
 
 matter what may be your condition, never suffer feeling 
 
 to become so acute as to dim your sober thoughts, and 
 
 Earalyze your right actions. But here are a hundred dol- 
 irs. Redeem your things, and get on your feet again. 
 Take them as an advance on your salary for the last year; 
 and draw six hundred instead of five, in future." 
 
 A grateful look told the joy of his heart, as he hastened 
 away. In one hour the furniture which the day before 
 had been forcibly taken away, was at his own door. 
 
 Relief from present embarrassment, and a fair prospect 
 of a full support for the future, gave Wilmer a lighter 
 heart than he had carried in his bosom for many months. 
 The reaction made him for a time happy. But, while 
 our hearts are evil, we cannot be happy, except for brief 
 periods. The disease will indicate by pain its deep-root 
 ed presence. 
 
 The drooping form of his wife soon called his thoughts 
 back to misery. Health had wandered away, and the 
 smiling truant strayed so long, that hope of her return 
 had almost forsaken them. 
 
 Nearly five years had passed since Constance turned 
 away, almost broken-hearted, from the door-stone of her 
 father's house; and during all that long, long time, she had 
 received no token of remembrance. She dared not suffer 
 herself to think even for a moment on the cruel fact. The 
 sudden, involuntary remembrance of such a change from 
 the fondest affection to the most studied disregard, would 
 almost madden her. 
 
 As for Wilmer, the recollection of the past was as a 
 thorn in his pillow, too often driving sleep from a wearied 
 frame, that needed its health-restoring influence. And 
 often, deep and bifter were his self-reproaches. But for 
 his fatal and half-insane abandonment of himself to the 
 vain hope of gaining a foothold by which he might rapidly 
 elevate his condition for the sake of Constance, he was 
 now conscious that, slowly, but surely, he would have 
 risen, by the power of an internal energy of character. 
 And more deeply conscious was he, that, but for the half- 
 intoxicated condition in which he was when he consented 
 
 51
 
 418 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 to go to a gaming-house, he never would have abandoned 
 himself to gaming and drinking as he did for two long 
 years of excited hopes, and dark, gloomy despondency. 
 'Two years, that broke down his spirits, and exhausted 
 the energies of his physical system. Two years, from 
 whose sad effects, neither mind nor body was ever again 
 able to recover. 
 
 But now let us turn from the cast-off, from the forsaken, 
 to the parents who had estranged themselves from their 
 child. 
 
 A foreign arrival had brought letters from Mr. Jack 
 son's agent in Holland, containing information of a great 
 fall in tobacco. Large shipments had been made by 
 several houses, and especially by that of Mr. Jackson, in 
 anticipation of high prices resulting from a scarcity of 
 the article in the German markets. But the shipments 
 had been too large, and a serious decline in price was the 
 consequence. Any interruption of trade, by which the 
 expectation of profits entertained for months is dashed to 
 the ground in a moment, has, usually, the effect to make 
 the merchant unhappy for a brief period. It takes some 
 time for the energies of his mind, long directed in one 
 course, to gather themselves up again, and bend to some 
 new scheme of profit. The " tobacco speculation" of 
 18 , had been a favourite scheme of Mr. Jackson's, and 
 he had entered into it more largely than any other Ameri 
 can house. Its failure necessarily involved him in a heavy 
 loss. 
 
 As evening came quietly down, sobering into a browner 
 mood the feelings of Mr. Jackson, the merchant turned 
 his steps slowly towards his home. Naturally, the smil 
 ing image of his daughter came up before his mind, and 
 he quickened his pace instinctively. He remembered 
 how nearly he had lost even this darling treasure, and 
 chid himself for being troubled at the loss of a few thou 
 sand dollars, when he was so rich in the love of a lovely 
 child. He rang the bell with a firmer hand, and stepped 
 more lightly as he entered the hall, in anticipation of the 
 sweet smile of his heart's darling. He felt a little disap 
 pointed at not finding her in the sitting-room, but did not 
 ask for her, in expectation of seeing her enter each mo 
 ment. So much was he engrossed with her image that
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 419 
 
 he almost forgot his business troubles. Gradually his 
 mind, from the over-excitement of the day, became a 
 little fretted, as he listened in vain for her light foot-fall 
 at the door. When the bell rung for tea, he started, and 
 asked, 
 
 " Where is Constance ?" 
 
 " In her room, I suppose," replied Mrs. Jackson, indif 
 ferently. 
 
 They seated themselves at the tea-table, and waited for 
 a few moments; but Constance did not come. 
 
 " John, run up and call Constance ; perhaps she did not 
 hear the bell." 
 
 John returned in a moment with the intelligence that 
 his young mistress was not there. 
 
 ' Then, where is she ?" asked both the parents at once. 
 
 4 Don't know," replied John, mechanically. 
 
 1 Call Sarah." 
 
 Sarah came. 
 
 4 Where is Constance ?" 
 
 ' I don't know, ma'am." 
 
 4 Did she go out this afternoon ?" 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am. She went out about two hours ago, 
 ma'am." 
 
 44 That 's strange," said her mother. " She always tells 
 me where she is going." 
 
 Both parents left the tea-table, each with a heavy pre 
 sentiment of coming trouble about the heart. They went, 
 as by one consent, to Constance's chamber. The mother 
 proceeded to look into her drawers, and found to her 
 grief and astonishment that they were nearly all empty. 
 
 For some time, neither spoke a word. The truth had 
 flashed upon the mind of each at the same moment. 
 
 "It may not yet be too late," were the first words 
 spoken, and by the mother. 
 
 " It is too late," was the brief, but meaning response. 
 
 From that time her name was not mentioned, and even 
 her portrait was taken down and thrown into the lumber- 
 room. Her few letters, after her hasty and imprudent 
 marriage, were burned up without being opened. So 
 much for wounded family pride ! But think not that her 
 image was really obliterated from their minds. No no. 
 It was there an ever constant and living presence.
 
 420 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, 
 yet they could not drive away her spiritual presence. 
 
 Year after year glided away, and though the name of 
 Constance had never passed their lips, and they knew 
 nothing of her destiny; yet as year after year passed, her 
 image, now a sad, tearful image, grew more and more 
 distinct before their eyes. In their dreams they often saw 
 her in suffering and nigh unto death, and when they would 
 stretch forth their hands to save her, she would be snatch 
 ed out of their sight. Still they mentioned not her name; 
 and the world thought the cold-hearted, unnatural parents 
 had even forgotten their child. 
 
 But what had they now to live for ? To such as they, 
 no happiness resulted from doing good to others, for the 
 love of self had extinguished all love of the neighbour. 
 The passion for accumulating, it is true, still remained 
 with the merchant ; but trade had become so broken up 
 and diverted from its old channels, that he realized small 
 profits, and frequent losses. Finally, he retired from busi 
 ness, and from the city. 
 
 After the marriage of Constance, Mrs. Jackson found 
 herself of far less consideration in company. Few in 
 high life are altogether heartless, and all are ready to 
 censure any exhibition of family pride, which is carried 
 so far as to alienate the parent from the child. This feel 
 ing the mother of Constance found to prevail wherever 
 she went, and she never attributed the coolness of fash 
 ionable acquaintances, nor the gradual falling away of 
 more intimate friends, to any other than the right cause. 
 How could she ? In her case the adage was true to the 
 letter " A guilty conscience needs no accusation." 
 
 Nearly ten years had passed away since the parents 
 oecame worse than childless. They were living at their 
 country residence near Harlaem, enduring, but not enjoy 
 ing life. They had wealth, and every comfort and luxury 
 that wealth could bring. But the slave who toiled in the 
 burning sun, and prepared his own coarse food at night 
 in a dirty hovel, was happier than they. Even unto this 
 time had they not spoken together of their child, since 
 the day of her departure. 
 
 One night in August, a terrible storm swept over New 
 York and its neighbourhood. Flash after flash of keen
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 421 
 
 lightning blazed across the sky, and peal after peat of 
 awful thunder rent the air. It came up about midnight, 
 and continued for more than an hour. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Jackson were roused from slumber by this terrible war 
 of the elements. Its noise had troubled their sleep ere 
 it awoke them, and their dreams were of their child. 
 During its awful continuance, while they felt themselves 
 more intimately in the hands of the Ail-Powerful, their 
 many sins passed rapidly before them, but the stain that 
 darkened the whole of the last ten years, the one crime 
 of many years, which made their hearts sink within them 
 with a strange fear, was their conduct towards their child. 
 But neither spoke of it. Upon this subject, for several 
 years, they had been afraid of each other. 
 
 The storm passed away, but they could not sleep. 
 Wearied nature sought, but could find no repose. Each 
 tossed and turned and wished for the morning, and when 
 the morning began to dawn they closed their eyes, and 
 almost wished the darkness had continued. A troubled 
 'sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the 
 name of his child. The quick ear of the mother caught 
 the word, and it thrilled through every nerve. Tears 
 stole down her cheeks, and her heart swelled near to 
 bursting with maternal instincts. The vision of his child 
 that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and 
 with the murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness. 
 Lifting himself up, he saw the tearful face of his wife. 
 He could not mistake the cause. Why should she weep 
 but for her child ? He looked at her for a moment, when 
 she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her tear 
 ful face on his breast. 
 
 The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the 
 parents gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters. They 
 talked of Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept 
 for their lost one. But where was she ? how could they 
 find her? 
 
 The sun had scarcely risen, when Mr. Jackson set out 
 to seek for his child, while his wife remained at home in 
 a state of agonizing suspense. He knew not whether she 
 were alive or dead ; in New York or elsewhere. The 
 second day brought Mrs. Jackson a letter, it ran as fol 
 lows :
 
 422 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 " I have searched in vain for our Constance. But how 
 could it be otherwise 1 Who should know more about her 
 than myself? I have asked some of our old acquaintances 
 if they ever heard of her since her marriage. They 
 shake their heads and look at me as though they thought 
 me demented. Laura Wykoff, you know, married some 
 years ago. I called upon her. She knew little or no 
 thing; but said, she had heard that her husband who had 
 become dissipated had left her and gone off to Baltimore. 
 She thought it highly probable that she had been dead 
 some years. She treated me coldly enough. But I feel 
 nothing for myself. Poor, dear child ! where can thy lot 
 be cast? Perhaps, how dreadful the thought! she may 
 have dragged her drooping, dying form past our dwell 
 ing, once her peaceful home, and looked her last look 
 upon the door shut to her for ever, while the cold winds 
 of winter chilled her heart in its last pulsations. Oh, I 
 fear we have murdered our poor child ! Every meagre- 
 looking, shrinking female form I pass on the street, makes 
 my heart throb. ' Perhaps that is Constance,' I will say, 
 and hasten to read the countenance of the forlorn one. 
 But I turn away, and sigh ; where, where can she be ?' 
 
 " Since writing this, I have seen a young man who 
 knew her husband. He says, that after the failure of a 
 house in which Wilmer was employed, he went to Balti 
 more and took Constance with him. He says, he knows 
 this to be so, because he was well acquainted with Wil 
 mer, and shook hands with him on the steamboat when 
 he went away. I hinted to him what I had heard about 
 Wilmer's leaving her. He repelled the insinuation with 
 warmth, and said, that he, Wilmer, would have died rather 
 than cause Constance a painful feeling that she certainly 
 did go with him, for when he parted with Wilmer, Con 
 stance was leaning on his arm. He says, she looked pale 
 and troubled ; and mentioned that they had with them a 
 sweet little baby. Oh, how my heart yearns after my 
 child ! 
 
 " I have since learned the name of the firm in Balti 
 more in whose employment he was, shortly after he went 
 there. To-morrow morning I shall go to that city. You 
 shall hear from me on my arrival."
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 423 
 
 Nearly a week passed before Mrs. Jackson received 
 further intelligence from her husband. I will'not attempt 
 to describe her feelings during that long time. In suffer 
 ing or joy we discover how relative and artificial are all 
 our ideas of time. 
 
 The next letter ran thus : 
 
 " Here I am in Baltimore, but it seems no nearer find 
 ing our child than when I was in New York. The firm 
 in whose employment Wilrner was shortly after his arri 
 val in Baltimore, has been dissolved some years ; and I 
 am told that neither of the partners is now in this city. 
 I have not been able to learn the name of a single clerk 
 who was in their store. I feel disheartened, yet more 
 eager every day to find our lost one. Where can she be? 
 
 " A day more has passed since my arrival here, and I 
 have a little hope. I have found one of his former fellow- 
 clerks. He says, that he thinks Wilmer is still in town. 
 I do not want to advertise for him, if I can help it, but 
 shall do so before I leave the city, if other means fail. 
 This young man tells me, that when he knew him he had 
 three children. He never saw our Constance. He re 
 presents Wilmer as having been in bad health, and as 
 generally appearing dejected. He says, all his furniture 
 was once seized and sold by the sheriff for rent, but that 
 it was redeemed next day by his employers, who treated 
 him very kindly on the occasion. I have heard nothing 
 of the poor boy that has not prepossessed me in his 
 favour. I fear he has had a hard time of it. How much 
 happiness have we lost how much misery have we 
 occasioned ! Surely we have lived in vain all our lives ! 
 I feel more humbled every day since I left home. 
 
 " Since yesterday I have learned that he was in the 
 city less than a year ago and that Constance was living. 
 How my heart throbs ! Shall I see my own dear child 
 again? Theodore, I fear, is in very bad health, if still 
 alive. He had to give up a good situation about a year 
 ago, as book-keeper in a large establishment here, where 
 he was much esteemed, on account of his health giving 
 way so fast under the confinement. I believe he took 
 another situation as salesman in a retail store, on a very 
 small salary. Some one told me that Constance had been 
 under the necessity of taking in sewing, to help to get a
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 living and all this time we had abundance all around us! 
 I call myself, ' wretch,' and so I would call any other 
 man who would cast off his child, as I have done a 
 tender flower to meet the cold winds of autumn. 
 
 # # * * * 
 
 " I have seen my child ! my poor dear Constance ! But 
 oh, how changed ! While passing along the street to-day, 
 almost in despair of ever finding her a slender female, 
 about the same height of Constance, passed me hastily. 
 There was something peculiar, I thought, about her, and 
 I felt as I had never yet felt, while near a stranger. I 
 followed her, scarce knowing the reason why. She 
 entered a clothing-store, and I went in after her, and 
 asked to look at some article, I scarce knew what. Her 
 first word startled me as would a shock of electricity. 
 It was my own child. But I could not make myself 
 known to her there. She laid down upon the counter 
 three vests, and then presented a small book, in which to 
 have the work entered. The entry was made, and the 
 book handed back. 
 
 *' There are just three dollars due you,' said the man. 
 
 " ' Three-and-a-half, I believe it is, sir.' 
 
 " No, it 's only three.' 
 
 "'Then I have calculated wrong. I thought it was 
 three-and-a-half.' 
 
 " How mournful and disappointed was her tone ! 
 
 " After standing for some time looking over her book, 
 she said in a lighter voice, well, I believe I am right. 
 See here ; I have made twenty-eight vests, and at twelve- 
 and-a-half cents each, that is three dollars and a half.' 
 
 " ' Well, I believe you are right,' said the man, in a 
 changed tone, after looking over the book again. 
 
 " ' Can you pay me to-day ? I am much in want 
 of it.' 
 
 " ' No, I can't. I have a thousand dollars to pay in 
 bank, arid I cannot spare anything before two or three 
 days.' 
 
 " She paused a moment, and then went slowly towards 
 the door ; lingered for a short time, and then turned to 
 the man again. I then saw for the first time, for ten long 
 years, her face. How thin and pale it was ! how trou 
 bled its expression! But it was the face of our dear
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 425 
 
 Constance. She did not look towards me ; but turned 
 again to the shop-keeper, and said, 
 
 " ' Be kind enough, sir, to let me have one dollar. I 
 want it very much !' 
 
 " You give me more trouble about your money than 
 any other workman I have,' said the man roughly, as he 
 handed her a dollar. 
 
 " She took it, unheeding the cruel remark, and before 
 I could make up my mind how to act, glided quickly 
 away. I followed as hastily, and continued to walk after 
 her, until I saw her enter a large, old-fashioned brick 
 building. About this dwelling, there was no air of com 
 fort. In the door sat a little girl, and two boys, pale, but 
 pleasant-looking children. One of them clapped his little 
 hands as Constance passed them, and then got up and 
 ran after her into the house. They all had her own 
 bright eyes. I would have known them for her's any 
 where. 
 
 " Does it not seem strange that I hesitated to go in at 
 once to my child. But I am at a loss what to do. 
 Sometimes I think that I will wait until you come on, and 
 make her heart glad with the presence of both at once. 
 To-morrow I will write you again. The mail is just 
 closing ; and I must send this." 
 
 After Wilmer had received the kindly proffered relief 
 from his employers, in an increase of salary, he was less 
 troubled about the daily wants of his family. But other 
 sources of keen anxiety soon presented themselves. His 
 own health began to give way so rapidly as to awaken 
 in his mind, fearful apprehensions of approaching inability 
 to support his family; and Constance was not strong. 
 Too often, the pain in his breast and side was so severe 
 as to make his place at the desk little less than torture. 
 A confirmed, short, dry cough, not severe, but constant, 
 also awakened his liveliest fears. 
 
 At the end of a year from the time when his employers 
 began to feel a kind interest in him, he was removed from 
 the desk, and given more active employment as salesman 
 and out-of-door clerk. The benefit of this change was 
 soon felt. The pain in his breast and side gradually gave 
 way, his appetite increased, and his cough became less 
 
 52
 
 426 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 and less irritating. But this improvement was only tern 
 porary. The disease had become too deeply rooted. 
 True, he suffered much less than while confined at the 
 desk, but the morbid indications were too constant to 
 leave him much of the flattery of hope. 
 
 Another year gradually rolled away, and with it came 
 more changes, and causes of concern. A little stranger 
 had come into his family, making three the number of his 
 babes, and adding to the list of his cares and his expenses; 
 and it must also be said, to his pleasures. For what 
 parent, with the heart of a parent, be his condition what 
 it may, but rejoices in the number of the little ones whose 
 eyes brighten at his coming ? But there was a change of 
 greater importance in his prospects. The firm in whose 
 service he was, became involved and had to wind up their 
 business. All the clerks were in a short time discharged, 
 and Wilmer among the rest. The time was one of great 
 commercial pressure, and many long-established houses 
 were forced to yield ; others were driven to great curtail 
 ment of expenses. The consequence was that few were 
 employing clerks, and many dispensing with their services. 
 Under the circumstances, Wilmer found it impossible to 
 obtain employment. Daily did he call at the various 
 stores and counting-rooms in the hope of meeting with a 
 situation, only to return to his dwelling more depressed 
 and disheartened. 
 
 By great economy, in view of approaching ill health, 
 -he had managed to lay up, since the increase in his wages, 
 nearly the amount of that increase. He had done this, 
 by living upon the same amount that he before found to 
 be inadequate to the support of his family. How this 
 was done, they only can know who have resolutely, from 
 necessity, made the same experiment, and found that the 
 real amount necessary to live upon is much smaller than 
 is usually supposed. This sum, about one hundred dol 
 lars, he had when he was thrown out of employment 
 scarcely enough to last for three months, under their pre 
 sent expenses. It was with painful reluctance that Wil- 
 mer trespassed upon this precious store, but he found 
 necessity a hard task-master. 
 
 Amid the gloom and darkness of his condition and 
 prospects, there was one bright star shining upon him
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 407 
 
 with an ever-constant light. No cloud could dim or 
 obscure it. That light, that cheerful star, was the wife 
 of his bosom. The tie that bound her to her husband 
 was not an external one alone; she was wedded to him 
 in spirit. Her affection for him, as sorrow, and doubt, 
 and fearful foreboding of coming evils gathered about 
 him, assumed more and more of the mother's careful and 
 earnest love for the peace of her child. She met him 
 with an ever-cheerful countenance ; gently soothed his 
 fears, and constantly referred him to the overruling care 
 of Divine Providence. Affliction had wrought its proper 
 work upon her affections, and as they became gradually 
 separated from the world, they found a higher and purer 
 source of attraction. From a thoughtless girl, she had 
 become a reflecting woman, and with reflection had come 
 a right understanding of her duties. An angel of com 
 fort is such a woman to a man of keen sensibilities, who 
 finds his struggle in the world a hard and painful one. 
 
 Two months passed away in the vain effort to obtain 
 employment. Every avenue seemed shut against him. 
 The power of endurance was tried to its utmost strength, 
 when he was offered a situation in an iron-store, to han 
 dle iron, and occasionally perform the duties of a clerk. 
 Three hundred dollars was the salary. He caught at it, 
 as his last hope, with eagerness, and at once entered upon 
 his duties. He found them more toilsome than he had 
 expected. The business was a heavy one, and kept him 
 at fatiguing labour nearly the whole day. Never having 
 been used to do hard work, he found on the morning of 
 the second day, that the muscles of his back, arms, and 
 legs, were so strained, that he could hardly move himself. 
 He was as sore as if he had been beaten with a heavy 
 stick. This, however, in a great measure, wore off, after 
 he began to move about ; but he found his strength giving 
 way much sooner on this day than on the preceding one. 
 At night, his head ached badly, he had no appetite, and 
 was feverish. On the next morning, however, he went 
 resolutely to work; but he felt so unfit for it, that he 
 finally, referring in his own mind to what he had suffered 
 on a former occasion by not explaining his true situation, 
 determined to mention to his new employer how he felt, 
 and ask a little respite for a day or two, until his strength
 
 428 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 should return. He, accordingly, left the large pile of iron 
 \vhich he had commenced assorting, and entered the 
 counting-room. He felt a great degree of hesitation, but 
 strove to keep it down, while he summoned up resolution 
 to utter distinctly and mildly his request. 
 
 The man of iron was busy over his bill-book when 
 Wilmer sought his presence, and looked up with a stern 
 aspect. 
 
 " I feel quite sick," began Theodore, an older man 
 than his employer, " from working beyond my strength 
 for the last two days, and should be very glad if 
 you could employ me at something lighter for as long a 
 time, until I recover myself, when 1 will be much stronger 
 than when I began, and able to keep steadily on. I have 
 never been used to hard labour, and feel it the more 
 severely now." 
 
 Mr. looked at him with a slight sneer for a mo 
 ment, and then replied, 
 
 " I can't have any playing about me ! If my work 
 suits you, well ; if not, there are a plenty whom it will 
 suit." 
 
 Silently did Wilmer withdraw from the presence of the 
 unfeeling man, and turned with aching limbs to his toil 
 some work. 
 
 At night he found himself much worse than on the pre 
 ceding evening; and on the ensuing morning he was 
 unable to go to the store. It was nearly a week before 
 he could again find his way out, and then he was in a 
 sadly debilitated state, from the effects of a fever brought 
 on by over-exertion. He went to the iron-store, and for 
 mally declined his situation. No offer was made to re 
 engage him, and as he turned away from the door of the 
 counting-room, he heard the man remark, in a sneering 
 under-tone to a person present, " a poor milk-sop !" 
 
 Generally, the unfortunate are stung to the quick b^ 
 any reflection upon them by those in a better condition ; 
 and few were more alive to ridicule than Wilmer. Both 
 the condition and the constitutional infirmity combined, 
 
 made the remark of Mr. produce in his bosom a 
 
 tempest of agitation ; and for a moment he was roused 
 from his usual calm exterior ; but he recovered himself as 
 quick as thought, and hurried away. He did not go
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 429 
 
 directly home, but wandered listlessly about for several 
 hours. When he returned at the usual dinner hour, he 
 found his wife busily engaged in preparing dinner. Her 
 babe was asleep in the cradle, by which sat the eldest 
 boy, touching it with his foot, while the other little one, 
 about four years old, was prattling away to her baby- 
 doll. 
 
 " Why Constance, where is Mary ?" 
 
 " She has gone away," was the smiling reply. 
 
 " How comes that ? I thought she appeared very 
 well satisfied." 
 
 " She was very well pleased with her place, I believe ; 
 but as I have taken it into my head to do without her, 
 and am a very wilful creature, as you know, why, there 
 was no remedy but to let her get another place. So I 
 told her as much this morning, and she has already found 
 a pleasant situation not so good, however, as this, she 
 says. Come, don't look so serious about it ! Theodore 
 can bring water for me, and you can cut the wood, and 
 among us we will do very well. It is a pity if two peo 
 ple can't take care of themselves, and three other little 
 bodies besides. And just see what we will save 1 Four 
 dollars a month for her wages, and her boarding into the 
 bargain. And you know, Mary, though a kind, good sort 
 of a body, and very industrious and obliging, eat almost 
 as much as all the rest of us together." 
 
 " Well, Constance, put as good a face upon the matter 
 as you can, but I feel that stern necessity has brought 
 you to it." 
 
 " You must not talk so much about ' stern necessity,' 
 Theodore. It is surely no great hardship for me to sweep 
 up the house every morning, and get the little food we 
 eat. I know that our income is cut off, for I don't sup 
 pose you are going back to that iron-store again. But 
 there will be a way opened for us. The kind Being who 
 is trying BS for our good will not leave us in our last 
 extremity. It is for us to do the best we can, with what 
 we can get. Now that our certain resources are with 
 drawn, it is for us to limit our expenses to the smallest 
 possible sum. We have, it is true, lived quite frugally 
 for the past year. But it is possible for us to Jive on much 
 less than the five hundred dollars that it has cost. Our
 
 430 THE FIERV TRIAL. 
 
 servant's wages and boarding were at least one hundred 
 dollars; and by the present retrenchment we save that 
 suin, and shall livd just as comfortably, for now we will 
 all help to take care of each other." 
 
 " So far so good, my comforter ! But where will the 
 four hundred dollars come from ?" 
 
 " Well, let us go on. We pay one hundred and fifty 
 dollars for this house. By going out upon the suburbs of 
 the town, we can get a pleasant little house for five dol 
 lars a month." 
 
 " O, no, Constance, you are too fast." 
 
 " Not at all. I have seen just the little place that will 
 suit us. The house is not old, and everything around is 
 sweet and clean. And it 's plenty big enough for us." 
 
 " Well, Constance, suppose by so doing we reduce our 
 expenses to three hundred and ten dollars. Where is that 
 sum to come from 1 I can't get any work." 
 
 " Don't despair, Theodore ! We shall not be forsaken. 
 But we must do for ourselves the best we can. I have 
 been turning over a plan in my head, by which we can 
 live much cheaper and a great deal happier ; for the less 
 it takes us to live, the less care we shall have about it." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 "By moving into a smaller house, we can dispense 
 with a great many things which will then be of no use to 
 us. These will bring us from two to three hundred dol 
 lars, at public sale. Good furniture, you know, always 
 brings good prices." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 "With this money, we can live in a smaller house, 
 without any servant, for nearly a year; and surely you 
 will get something to do by next spring, even if you 
 should be idle all winter." 
 
 Wilmer kissed the cheek of his wife, now glowing with 
 the excitement of cheerful hope, with a fervent and heart 
 felt affection, and murmuring in a low voice " My com 
 forting angel !" turned with a lighter heart than had beat 
 in his bosom for months, to caress the little girl, who was 
 clamouring for her usual kiss. 
 
 That afternoon was spent in discussing the proposed 
 retrenchment, and in going to look at the little house 
 which Mrs. Wilmer had mentioned. It was small, but
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 431 
 
 neat, and had a good yard, with a pump at the door. 
 They decided at once to take it, and obtained possession 
 of the key. 
 
 No time was lost in offering their superfluous furniture 
 at public sale; and to the satisfaction of both Wilmer and 
 his wife, the auctioneer returned them, after deducting 
 his commissions, the net sum of three hundred dollars. 
 
 In one week from the time of Mrs. Wilmer's proposi 
 tion, they were snugly packed away in their new resi 
 dence. 
 
 Late in the fall, Wilmer obtained a situation as collec 
 tor for one of the newspaper offices, on a salary of four 
 hundred dollars. This, under the reduced expense sys 
 tem, and with the surplus on hand, afforded them ample 
 means. The exercise in the open air which it allowed 
 him, was greatly conducive to his health, and he soon 
 showed considerable improvement in body and mind. 
 Things went on smoothly and satisfactorily until about 
 Christmas, when he took a violent cold, on a wet day, 
 which fell upon his lungs, and soon brought him to a very 
 weak state. From this, his recovery was so slow, and 
 his prospect of health so unpromising, that he found it a 
 matter of necessity to decline his situation, which was 
 retained for him as long as the office could wait. 
 
 During the whole of the remaining inclement weather 
 of the winter season, he found it necessary to keep within 
 doors, as he invariably took cold whenever he ventured 
 out. 
 
 Perceiving the failure of her husband's health to be 
 certainly and rapidly progressing, Mrs. Wilmer dwelt in 
 her own mind with painful solicitude upon the probable 
 means of support for them all, when his strength should 
 so entirely give way, as to render him altogether unfitted 
 for business. The only child of over-fond parents, rich 
 in this world's goods, she had received a thorough, fash 
 ionable education, which fitted her for doing no one thing 
 by which she could earn any money. Her music had 
 been confined to a few fashionable waltzes and overtures; 
 her French and Spanish were nearly forgotten, and her 
 proficiency in drawing and embroidery had never been 
 very great. In her girlish days she could dance grace 
 fully, and talk fashionable nonsense with a bewitching air
 
 432 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 when it became necessary to amuse some sprig of fashion, 
 or wield good plain common sense with common sense 
 people, when occasion called for it. But as to possess 
 ing resources in herself for getting a living in the world, 
 that was another matter altogether. But there is a crea 
 tive power in necessity, which acts with wonderful skill 
 when the hour of trial comes. That hour had come with 
 Constance, and she steadily cast about her for the means 
 of earning money. 
 
 Next door to where she lived was a widow woman with 
 three grown-up daughters, who were always busy work 
 ing for the clothing-stores, or " slop-shops," as they were 
 called. She had made their acquaintance during the 
 winter, and found them kind and considerate of others, 
 and ever ready with an encouraging word, or serious 
 advice when called for. The very small compensation 
 which they received for their work, encouraged her but 
 little, when she thought of obtaining something to do in 
 the same way. But the more she thought of other means, 
 the less she found herself fitted for doing anything else, 
 and at last determined to learn how to make common 
 pantaloons, that she might have some resource to fly to, 
 when all others failed. She found her kind neighbours 
 ready to give her all the instruction she needed, and they 
 also kindly offered to introduce her to the shops whenever 
 she should determine to take in work. It did not take 
 her long to learn, and soon after she had acquired the art, 
 as her husband's health still continued to decline, she 
 began, in odd times, to make common pantaloons and 
 vests, for which she received the meagre compensation 
 of twelve-and-a-half cents each. It took her about one- 
 half of her time, actively engaged, to attend to her family. 
 During the remaining half of each day and evening, she 
 would make a vest or a pair of pantaloons, which at the 
 end of the week would bring her in seventy-five cents. 
 
 When she looked at this small sum, the aggregate of a 
 week's labour, during leisure from the concerns of her 
 family, she felt but little encouraged in prospect of having 
 the whole of her little family dependent upon her ; and 
 for some weeks she entertained, in the silence of her own 
 heart, a sickening consciousness of coming destitution, 
 which she might in vain endeavour to prevent. Gradual-
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL 433 
 
 ly her mind reacted from this painful state, and she gave 
 daily diligence to her employments, entertaining a firm 
 trust in Divine Providence. 
 
 As the spring opened, her husband's health revived a 
 little, and he found employment at a small compensation 
 in a retail dry-goods store. This just suited his strength 
 and the state of his health, and he continued at it for 
 something like three years. During this period nothing 
 of material interest occurred, and we pass it over in 
 silence. 
 
 The long-looked-for, long-dreaded time, when Wilmer's 
 health should entirely give way, at length came; and 
 although through the kindness of his employers he had 
 been retained in the store long after he was able to do his 
 full duty, yet at last he had to give up. 
 
 It would require a pen more skilled to portray the 
 workings of the human heart, than mine, to sketch his 
 real feelings, when he received his last month's wages, 
 the last that he felt he would ever earn for his family, and 
 turned his steps homeward. He loved the wife who had 
 forsaken the wealth and comfort of a father's house, and 
 had been all in all to him through sunshine and storm, 
 with deep and tearful affection ; he would have sacrificed 
 everything for her ; and yet for years had he been com 
 pelled to see her toil for a portion of the bread that nour 
 ished her and her children. He loved his little ones, with 
 a yearning tenderness ; the more fervently and passion 
 ately, now that he could no longer minister to their wants. 
 How could he meet them all on this evening, and see their 
 dear faces brighten up on his entrance, when he could no 
 longer earn them food, or provide them with comforts ? 
 It was with a strong effort that he kept down his feelings, 
 as he entered his home, now comprised in two rooms in 
 the second story of an old house in Commerce street, 
 where they had removed, to be nearer his place of busi 
 ness, the long walk having been too fatiguing for him, 
 after standing behind the counter all day. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmer's quick eye at once detected a change in 
 the expression of her husband's countenance, but she said 
 nothing. After tea, the children were all put to bed in 
 the next room, and they were then alone. Wilmer sat in 
 deeo thought by the table, shading his face with his hand
 
 434 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 when his wife came in from the chamber where she had 
 been with the children. Twining her arm round his 
 neck, she bent over him, and said, in a tone of tender 
 concern 
 
 " Why so thoughtful, Theodore ?" 
 
 He did not reply for some moments, nor lift his head, 
 and Constance was about to repeat her question in a more 
 earnest voice, when a hot tear fell upon her hand. She 
 had seen him often sorely tried and painfully exercised, 
 but had never known him to shed a tear. There had 
 always been a troubled silence in his manner when dif 
 ficulties pressed upon him, but tears moistened not his 
 eyes. Well might her heart sink down in her bosom at 
 that strange token of intense suffering. 
 
 " Dear Theodore !" she said, in a changed tone, " tell 
 me what it is that troubles you !" 
 
 A shuddering sob was the only reply, as he leaned his 
 head back upon her bosom. 
 
 " Say, dearest, what has happened ?" 
 
 The tears now fell from his eyes like rain, and sob 
 nfter sob shook his frame convulsively. 
 
 Constance waited in silence until the agitation subsided, 
 and then gently urged him to tell her what it was that 
 troubled him so painfully. 
 
 " I am broken in spirits now, Constance. I am a weak 
 child. I have received the last blow, and manhood has 
 altogether forsaken me." 
 
 " Tell me ! oh, tell me ! Theodore, all, all ! Do not dis 
 tress me by further silence, or mystery !" 
 
 A pause of some minutes succeeded, during which 
 Wilmer was making strong efforts to overcome his feel 
 ings. 
 
 " Constance," he at length said, mournfully, " I have 
 tried long, and much beyond my strength, to earn the 
 small sum that it took to support our little ones ; but nature 
 has at last given way. Here is the last dollar I shall pro 
 bably ever earn, and now I shall be a burden upon you, 
 eating the bread of my children, while they, poor things, 
 will hunger for the morsel that nourishes me. I do not 
 wonder that manly feelings have passed away with my 
 strength. Constance, what shall we do ?" 
 
 An angel of comfort is woman to life's last extremity.
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 435 
 
 Fragile as a reed, that bends to the passing breeze, when 
 the sunshine of prosperity is bright above and around, she 
 oecomes the tall oak, deep-rooted and strong-branched, 
 when the wintry storms of adversity sweep over the 
 earth. No trial subdues her, no privation brings a mur 
 mur of discontent. She will hope to the last, and still 
 have a smile of assurance for those who, in their despon 
 dency, have even cast away hope. Constance Wilmer 
 was a woman, and as a woman, her worth was felt more 
 and more, as troubles came thicker and faster. 
 
 " Dear husband !" she said, in a steady and cheerful 
 voice, " you have forgotten that line, so true and so com 
 forting 
 
 " ' Despair is never quite despair' 
 
 " I see no cause for such painful feelings. Pinching want 
 is not upon us yet, and I am sure the time will never 
 come when our children shall ask food at our hands in 
 vain. Trial, which is always for our good, will never 
 reach beyond the point of endurance." 
 
 " The burden is all upon you, Constance. Heaven 
 grant that you may have strength to bear it !" 
 
 " I fear not for the strength. That will come in due 
 time. Now we have food and raiment, and therewith let 
 us be content. If God so clothe the grass of the field, 
 which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, will 
 he not clothe us ? He that feedeth the young ravens when 
 they cry, will not turn away from us. Are we not of 
 more value than many sparrows?" 
 
 " Bless you ! bless you ! Constance." 
 
 " Do not, then, dear husband ! cast away your con 
 fidence. If the burden is to be all upon me, it will be 
 lightened by your cheerful countenance and encouraging 
 words. I shall need them both, doubtless ; then do not 
 withhold them." 
 
 Her voice lost its steadiness, trembled a moment, and 
 then she hid her face, in silence and in tears, upon his 
 bosom. 
 
 As Wilmer had foreseen, the strength for further labour 
 was gone for ever. He lingered about for a few weeks, 
 and then took to his bed. And now came the time for 
 the full trial of Mrs. Wilmer's mental and bodily strength.
 
 436 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 Notwithstanding all her close application at the needle, 
 the small sum that had been saved from former earn 
 ings, slowly, but steadily diminished. Daily she increas 
 ed her exertions, and encroached further upon the hours 
 of rest ; but still there was a steady withdrawal of the 
 hoarded treasure. At first, her confidence in the Divine 
 Providence was measurably shaken ; but soon the waver 
 ing needle of her faith turned steadily to its polar star. 
 Her own health, never vigorous, began also to give way 
 under the increased application which became necessary 
 for the support of the beloved ones, now entirely depen 
 dent upon her labour for food and raiment. Her appetite, 
 never very good, failed considerably, and consequently 
 there was a withdrawal instead of an increase of strength. 
 But none knew of her pain or weakness. Her pale face 
 was ever a cheerful one, and her voice full of tenderness. 
 
 When the next spring opened, Wilmer was not only 
 confined to the house, but unable to sit up, except for a 
 few hours at a time through the day. His wife's health 
 had suffered much, and all the hours she sat at her needle, 
 were hours of painful endurance. Spring passed away, 
 and summer came. But the milder airs had no kind effect 
 upon the fast sinking frame of her husband. He was 
 rapidly going down to the grave, his last hours embitter 
 ed by the sight of his wife and children suffering before 
 him. 
 
 During the month of August, Wilmer declined so fast, 
 and needed such constant attention, that his wife could 
 find but little time to devote to her needle. What she 
 thus lost in the day-time, she had to make up, as far as 
 possible, by encroaching upon the night hours, and often 
 the lamp by her side would grow dim before the light of 
 day, while she still bent in weariness and pain, over the 
 work that was to give bread to her children. 
 
 For some months her work had been confined to one 
 shop, the master of which was not always punctual in 
 paying her the pittance she earned. Instead of handing 
 her, whenever she called, the trifle due her, he made her 
 procure a little book in which he would enter the work, 
 promising to pay when it would amount to a certain sum. 
 In anxious hope would Mrs. Wilmer wait until her earn 
 ings rose to the required amount ; but not always then
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 437 
 
 could she get her due ; there would too frequently be a 
 part payment, or a request to call in a day or two. 
 
 One day towards the first of September, she found that 
 both food and money were out. She was just finishing a 
 couple of vests for the clothing-shop, and there were more 
 than three dollars due to her. While turning over in her 
 
 own mind the hope that Mr. would pay her the small 
 
 sum due, when she carried in the work, and troubled the 
 while with fears lest he should deny her, as he had often 
 done before; her husband, whose bright eye had been 
 upon her for some time, and whose countenance, unseen 
 by her, had expressed an earnest, yet hesitating desire to 
 ask for something, said 
 
 " Constance, I don't know whether you are able to get 
 them, but if you can, I should like, above all things, to 
 have some grapes." 
 
 " Then you shall have some," Constance replied, earn 
 estly and affectionately. " I am sure they will help you. 
 Why did I not think of this for you long ago ?" 
 
 Resuming her needle, she plied it with double swiftness, 
 her heart trembling lest when she asked for her money at 
 the shop, it should be refused her. At last the work was 
 done and she carried it in. It was entered, and her book 
 handed back to her. She paused a moment, then turn 
 ed to go out, but she could not go home without some 
 money. Hesitatingly she asked to have her due, but it 
 was refused on some excuse of having a large payment 
 to make on that very day. Again she turned to go, but 
 again turned to ask for only a part of what was her own. 
 One dollar was thrown her with an unkind remark. The 
 first she seized with avidity, the last passed her ear un-r 
 heeded. 
 
 How swiftly did she hurry home with her little trea 
 sure ! more precious than a hundred times the sum had 
 ever been before. It was to meet the first expressed 
 want of her husband, to gratify which she would herself 
 have abstained days from food. 
 
 The grapes were soon obtained, with some bread, and 
 a small portion of meat, for the children. They proved 
 very grateful and refreshing to Wilmer, who, soon after 
 he had eaten a few of them, fell into a gentle sleep. 
 
 The food which Mrs. Wilmer had bought would last
 
 438 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 them probably about two days not longer. Two months' 
 rent would be due in a week, amounting to eight dollars. 
 Their landlord had threatened to take some of their things 
 to satisfy the last months' rent, and she had little hope of 
 his being put off longer than the expiration of the two 
 months. There were still two-and-a-half dollars due her 
 by the keeper of the clothing-store, which she knew it 
 would be almost as hard to get as to earn. 
 
 Not disposed, however, to sit down and brood over her 
 difficulties, which only made them worse, she went to 
 work in the best spirit possible to overcome them. She 
 obtained more work, and bent herself again over her daily 
 employment. 
 
 She was sitting with an aching head and troubled heart 
 at her work on the next morning, having only sought a 
 brief repose through the night, when a smart tap at the 
 door roused her from her abstraction of mind. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Wilmer live here, ma'am f asked a man. 
 
 " That is my name/' 
 
 "Then I am directed to leave this basket," and the 
 man deposited his burden on the floor, and was gone 
 before another word could be spoken. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmer stood for a moment in mute surprise, and 
 then removed the covering off the basket. It contained 
 tea, coffee, sugar, rice, meat, bread, and various other 
 articles of food ; and also, a letter directed to " Constance 
 Wilmer." She broke the seal with an anxious and trem 
 bling heart. It contained a fifty dollar note, and these 
 brief words : 
 
 " Put by your work you are cared for there is help 
 coming, and now very nigh be of good cheer !" 
 
 The coarse garment she still held in her hand, fell to 
 the floor. Her fingers released themselves from it by an 
 instinctive effort which she could not control. Her head 
 reeled for a moment, and she sunk into a chair, overcome 
 by a tumult of contending feelings. From this, she was 
 aroused by the voice of her husband, who anxiously 
 inquired the contents of the letter. He read it, and saw 
 the enclosure, and the supply of food in the basket, and 
 then clasped his hands and looked up with mute thankful 
 ness to heaven. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmer obeyed, with a confidence for which she 
 could not account, the injunction of her stranger-friend
 
 THE FIERY TRIAL. 439 
 
 and almost hourly for the first day referred to the charac 
 ters of the letter, which seemed familiar to her eye. That 
 she had seen the writing before, she was certain; but 
 where, or when, she could not tell. 
 
 Relieved from daily care and toil, she had more time 
 to give to her sick husband. She found him nearer the 
 grave than she had supposed. 
 
 Four days more passed away, and Wilmer had come 
 down to the very brink of the dark river of death. 
 
 It was night. The two younger children were asleep, 
 and the oldest boy, just in his tenth year, with his mother, 
 stood anxiously over the low bed, upon which lay, gasp 
 ing for breath, the dying husband and father. The widow, 
 who cannot forget the dear image of her departed one ; the 
 orphan, who remembers the dying agony of a fond father, 
 can realize in a great degree the sorrows which pressed 
 upon the hearts of these lone watchers by the bed of death. 
 
 The last hours of Wilmer's life were hours of distinct 
 consciousness. 
 
 "Constance," he whispered, in a low difficult whisper, 
 while his bright eyes were fixed upon her face " Con 
 stance, what will you do when I am gone ? I am but a 
 burden on you now ; but my presence I feel is something." 
 
 His stricken-hearted wife could make no answer ; but 
 the tears rolled over her face in great drops, and fell fast 
 upon the pillow of her dying husband. 
 
 " I cannot say, ' do not weep,' " continued Wilmer. " O 
 that I could give a word of comfort ! but your cup is full, 
 running over, and I cannot dash it from your lips : Dear 
 Constance ! you have been to me a wife and a mother. 
 Let me feel your warm cheek once more against mine, 
 for it is cold, very cold. Hark ! did you not hear voices ]" 
 And he strained his eyes towards the door, half-lifting 
 himself up. 
 
 For a few moments he looked eagerly for some one to 
 enter, and then fell back upon the bed with a heavy sigh, 
 murmuring to himself, in a low disappointed tone 
 
 " I thought they were coming." 
 
 " Who, love ?" asked Mrs. Wilmer, eagerly. But her 
 husband did not seem to hear her question ; but lay gasp 
 ing for breath, the muscles of his neck and face distorted 
 and giving to his countenance the ghastly expression of 
 death.
 
 440 THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 " Who, love ? who were coming t" eagerly asked Mrs. 
 Wilmer again, her own heart trembling with a recurrence 
 of the vague hopes with which the mysterious letter and 
 timely supply had inspired her, hopes that had never 
 been hinted to her husband. But it seemed that he had 
 given the incident his own interpretation. 
 
 But he heeded not her question. For some time mother 
 and son again stood over him, in troubled silence. Per 
 haps half an hour had passed since he had spoken, when 
 a slight bustle was heard, on the steps below, and then 
 feet were heard quickly ascending, and hastening along 
 the passage towards their chamber door. 
 
 " They come ! They come !" half-shrieked the dying 
 man, springing up in the bed, and bending over towards 
 the door, which was hastily flung open. His eyes glared 
 upon the two persons, a man and woman, both well ad 
 vanced in life, as they entered. That one anxious gaze 
 was enough. Looking up into the face of Constance, 
 against whose breast his head had sunk, his countenance 
 changed into an expression of intense delight, and he 
 whispered 
 
 " They have come, Constance ! they have come. Think 
 of me as at rest and happy. I die in peace !" 
 
 His eye-lids closed naturally there was no longer any 
 convulsive play of the muscles, and as an infant sinking 
 into slumber, so quietly did Theodore Wilmer sleep the 
 sleep of death. 
 
 One month from that night of sorroxv, the darkest one 
 in the many gloomy seasons of Mrs. Wilmer's life, might 
 have been seen this child of many afflictions, with her 
 three little ones, at home in one of the most pleasant 
 houses in the vicinity of New York. There was some 
 thing sad and subdued in the expression of her pale face, 
 but it was from the recollection of the past. Her mother, 
 who ten years before had cast her off as unworthy, now 
 gazed upon her with a look of the intensest affection ; am, 
 the father, who had sworn never to call her his child, sat 
 holding her thin white hand in his, and listening to her 
 first recital of all she had passed through since she left 
 the home of her childhood, while the tears fell from his 
 eyes in large drops, upon the hand that lay within his 
 own.
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 [THE following unadorned narrative, the reminiscence of a friend, I give 
 as if related by him from whom I received it. He was, in early years, 
 the apprentice of a tradesman, in whose family the principal incidents 
 occurred. The picture presented is one of every-day life.] 
 
 MR. WILLIAMS, to whom, when a boy, I was appren 
 ticed to learn the art and mystery by which he supported 
 a pretty large family, was not rich, although, by industry 
 and economy, he had gathered together a few thousand 
 dollars, and owned, besides, two or three neat little 
 houses, the aggregate annual rent of which was some 
 thing like six hundred dollars. His wife, a weak-minded 
 woman, however, considered him Independent, in regard 
 to wealth, and valued herself accordingly. Few held 
 their heads higher, or trode the pavement with a statelier 
 step than Mrs. Williams. 
 
 An elder sister, greatly her superior in every quality 
 of mind, had been far less fortunate in her marriage. 
 She was the wife of a man, who, instead of increasing 
 his worldly goods, the fruit of some twenty years' pru 
 dence and industry, had become dissipated, and at the 
 time now referred to, was sinking rapidly, and bearing 
 his family, of course, down with him. All energy seem 
 ed lost, and though his family was steadily increasing, he 
 grew more and more careless every day. 
 
 He spent much time in taverns, and wasted there a 
 good deal of money, that his family needed. Mrs. Haller, 
 his wife, was, as has been said, in intelligence and feel 
 ing, much the superior of Mrs. Williams, but appeared to 
 little advantage in her peculiar situation. She was the 
 elder sister, by four or five years. At the time of which 
 1 am now writing, Mrs. Haller had five children, two of 
 them grown up, and the rest small. Her husband had 
 become so indolent and sottish, that all her exertions 
 were needed to keep her little flock from suffering 
 
 54 441
 
 442 THE SISTERS 
 
 with cold and hunger. No woman could have laboured 
 more untiringly than she did, but it was labouring against 
 a strong current that bore her little bark slowly, but sure 
 ly backward. Here, then, are the two sisters ; one, the 
 elder, and superior in all the endowments of head and 
 heart the other with few claims to estimation other than 
 those afforded by a competence of worldly goods. Let 
 us view them a little closer. Perhaps we can read a les 
 son in their mutual conduct that will not soon be for 
 gotten. 
 
 In earlier years, I have learned, that they were much 
 attached to each other. In their father's house, they knew 
 no cares, and when they married, which was within a 
 few years of each other, their prospects were equal for 
 future happiness. While this equality existed, their inter 
 course was uninterrupted and affectionate. But, as Mr. 
 Haller began to neglect his family, the cloud that settled 
 upon the brow of his poor wife was not pleasant for Mrs. 
 Williams to look upon. Nor were the complaints that a 
 full heart too often forced to the lips, at all agreeable to 
 her ears. Naturally proud and selfish, these two feelings 
 had been gaining strength with the progress of years, 
 and were now so confirmed, that even towards an only 
 sister in changed circumstances they remained in full 
 activity. 
 
 When I first went to live with Mr. Williams, Mrs. Hal 
 ler resided in a neatly furnished, small two-story brick 
 house. Her husband had not then shown his vagabond 
 propensities very distinctly, though he spent in his family, 
 and otherwise, all that he earned each week, thus leaving 
 nothing for a rainy day. He was a little in debt, too, but 
 not so much as to make him feel uneasy. Mrs. Haller 
 was anxious to lay up something, and to be getting ahead 
 in the world, and was, consequently, always troubled 
 because things never got any better. She came to our 
 house every week, and Mr. Williams would visit her once 
 in a month or two. Mrs. Haller often talked of her trou 
 bles to her sister, who used then to sympathize with her, 
 and make many suggestions of means to render things 
 more accordant with her desires. As matters gradually 
 grew worse in the progress of time, and Mrs. Haller 
 began to make rather an indifferent appearance, the man-
 
 THE SISTERS 443 
 
 ner of her sister became evidently constrained and un- 
 sympathizing. She began to look upon her in the light 
 of a " poor relation." Her children, cousins of course 
 to Mrs. Williams's, were not treated encouragingly when 
 they came to our house, and if company happened to be 
 there, they were kept 6ut of sight, or sent home. Mrs. 
 Williams rarely visited Mrs. Haller not so often as once 
 in six months. 
 
 Long before the period of which I am now writing, 
 Haller had become drunken and very lazy. Their com 
 fortable house and furniture had been changed for poor 
 rooms, with little in them, except what was barely neces 
 sary. The oldest child, a son, about nineteen years of 
 age, on to whose maturity the mother had often looked 
 with a lively hope, following the example of his father, 
 had become idle and dissipated; spending most of his 
 time in low taverns and gambling-shops. Here was a 
 keen sorrow which no heart but a mother's can under 
 stand. Oh, what a darkening of all the dreams of early 
 years ! When a warm-hearted girl, looking into the plea 
 sant future with a tremulous joy, she stood beside her 
 chosen one at the altar, how little did she dream of the 
 shadows and darkness that were to fall upon her path ! 
 And alas ! how little does many a careless girl, who gives 
 nerself away, thoughtlessly, to a young man of unformed 
 character, dream of the sorrow too deep for tears that 
 awaits her. Surely this were anguish enough, and 
 surely it called for the sustaining sympathy of friends. 
 But the friend of her early years, the sister in whose 
 arms, in the days of innocent childhood, she had slept 
 peacefully, now turned from her coldly, and' even repul 
 sively. 
 
 So unnatural and revolting seems the picture I am 
 drawing, even in its dim outlines, that I turn from it my 
 self, half-resolved to leave it unfinished. But many rea 
 sons, stronger than feeling, urge me to complete my task 
 with the imperfect skill I possess, and I take the pencil 
 which I had laid down in shame and disgust, and proceed 
 to fill up more distinctly. 
 
 I had observed for some time the growing coolness of 
 Mrs. Williams towards her unfortunate sister, and had 
 noted more than once the deep dejection of Mrs. Haller's
 
 444 THE SISTERS. 
 
 manner, whenever she went away from our house. She 
 began to come less and less frequently, and her children 
 at still more remote intervals. Things became desperate 
 with her at length, and she came, forced by necessity, to 
 seek a little aid and comfort in her sorrow from her once 
 kind sister, and with the faint hope* that some relief would 
 be offered. I was sitting in the neatly furnished break 
 fast-room, one evening, a little after tea, reading a book, 
 when Mrs. Haller came in. She had on a dark calico 
 dress, faded, but clean, a rusty shawl that had once been 
 black, and a bonnet that Mrs. Williams's kitchen-servant 
 would not have worn. My eye instinctively glanced to 
 the face of Mrs. Williams as she entered ; it had at once 
 contracted into a cold and forbidding expression. She 
 neither rose from her chair, nor asked Mrs. Haller to take 
 one, greeting her only with a chilling " well, Sally." The 
 latter naturally sought a chair, and waited silently, and 
 surely with an aching heart, for a kinder manifestation 
 of sisterly regard. I immediately left the room ; but 
 learned afterwards enough of the interview to make it 
 distinct to the imagination of the reader. 
 
 The sisters sat silent for some moments, the one vainly 
 trying to keep down the struggling anguish of a stricken 
 heart, and the other, half-angry at the intrusion, endea 
 vouring to fashion a form of greeting that should convey 
 her real impressions, without being verbally committed. 
 At length the latter said, half-kindly, half-repulsively : 
 
 " Why, Sally, what has brought you so far from home, 
 after dark T 
 
 " Nothing very particular. Only I thought I would like 
 to drop in a little while and see how you all did. Be 
 sides, little Thomas is sick, and I wanted to get a few 
 herbs from you, as you always keep them." 
 
 " What kind of herbs do you want ?" 
 
 " Only a few sprigs of balm, and some woodbitney." 
 
 " Kitty" bawled out this unfeeling woman to the ser 
 vant in the kitchen " go up into the garret and bring me 
 a handful of balm and woodbitney and don't stay all 
 night!" 
 
 " No, ma'am," said Kitty, thinking the last part of the 
 order most requiring a reply. 
 
 A further pause of a few minutes ensued, when Mrs.
 
 THE SISTERS. 445 
 
 Haller, after almost struggling to keep silence, at length 
 ventured to say, sadly, and despondingly, that she should 
 have to move again. 
 
 " And what, in the name of heaven, Sally, are you 
 going to move again for ? You can't be suited much bet 
 ter." 
 
 " Nor much worse, either, Mary. But John has paid 
 no rent, and we can't stay any longer. The landlord has 
 ordered us to leave by next Wednesday, or he will throw 
 our few things into the street." 
 
 " Well, I declare, there is always something occurring 
 with you to worry my mind. Why do you constantly 
 harass me with your troubles ? I have enough at home 
 in my own family to perplex me, without being made to 
 bear your burdens. I never trouble you with my griev 
 ances, or anybody else, and do not think it kind in you 
 to make me feel bad every time you come here. I de 
 clare, I grow nervous whenever I see you !" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Haller, already bending beneath her burden, 
 found this adding a weight that made it past calm endur 
 ance, and she burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. But 
 not the slightest impression did this exhibition of sorrow 
 make upon Mrs. Williams. She even reproached her 
 with unbecoming weakness. 
 
 Although her sister had before shown indifference and 
 great coolness, yet never had she spoken thus unkindly. 
 In a few moments Mrs. Haller regained her calmness, 
 and with it came back some of her former pride of feel 
 ing. For a moment she sat with her eyes cast upon the 
 floor, endeavouring to keep down her struggling emo 
 tions; in the next she rose up, and looking her sister 
 fixedly in the face, read her this impressive lesson. 
 
 " Mary, I could not have dreamed of such harshness 
 from you ! I have thought you cold and indifferent, long ; 
 but I tried hard to believe that you were not unkind. I 
 have never come to see you in the last three years, that I 
 did not go away sad in spirit. There was something in 
 your manner that seemed to say that you thought my 
 presence irksome, and as you were the only friend I had 
 to speak to about my wearying cares and anxieties, it 
 grieved me more than I can tell to think that that only 
 friend was growing cold and that friend a sister! As
 
 446 THE SISTERS. 
 
 things have become worse with me, your manner has 
 grown colder, and now you have spoken out distinctly, 
 and destroyed the little resting place I sometimes sought 
 when wearied to faintness. Mary, may God who has 
 afflicted me, grant you a happier lot in the future ! May 
 you never know the anguish of one who sees a once 
 idolized husband become a brute her children growing 
 up worthless under the dreadful example of their father, 
 and all often wanting food to sustain nature ! You have 
 everything you desire. I have not the necessaries of life. 
 We were born of the same mother, and nursed at the 
 same bosom. We played together in childhood, once I 
 saved your life. And now, because our ways are dif 
 ferent; yours even and flowery, and mine rough and 
 thorny, you turn from me, as from an importunate beg 
 gar. Mary, we shall meet our father and mother at the 
 bar of God !" 
 
 Thus saying, Mrs. Haller turned slowly away, and 
 left the house before her sister, who was startled at this 
 unexpected appeal, could -sufficiently collect her senses to 
 reply. Her real errand, or, rather, her principal errand 
 to the house of Mrs. Williams, had been to ask for some 
 food for her children. It was many weeks since her hus 
 band had contributed a single dollar towards the daily 
 family expenses, and all the burden of their support de 
 volved upon the wife and mother. Night and day, in 
 pain, and exhaustion of body and mind, had she toiled to 
 get food for those who looked up to her, but all her efforts 
 were inadequate. Like thousands of others, when a girl, 
 she had acquired an education that was more ornamental 
 than useful. The consequence was, that she had no ready 
 means of earning money. The wants of a family of 
 children, had, it is true, given her some skill with her 
 needle, but not of a kind that would enable her to earn 
 much by sewing. 
 
 She did, however, at first try what she could do by 
 working for the cheap clothing-stores. But twelve-and- 
 a-half cents a pair for pantaloons, ten cents for vests, and 
 eight cents for shirts, yielded so little, that she was driven 
 to something else. That something else was the wash- 
 tub ; over which, and the ironing-table, she toiled early 
 and late, often ready to sink to the floor from exhaustioa
 
 THE SISTERS. 447 
 
 Of this, she said nothing to Mrs. Williams, who would 
 have been terribly mortified at the idea of her sister, 
 taking in washing for a support. The labour of one pair 
 of hands in the wash-tub, was, however, unequal to the 
 task of providing food for seven mouths, even of a very 
 poor quality. Consequently, Mrs. Haller found the wants 
 of her family pressing, every day, harder and harder upon 
 the slender means by which they were supplied. Often, 
 when she carried home her work, there was no food in 
 the house, and often did she work half the night, so as to 
 be able to take her clothes home early on the next day, 
 and get the money she had earned to meet that day's 
 wants. 
 
 Among those for whom she washed and ironed, was a 
 woman in good circumstances, who never paid her any 
 thing until she asked for it, and then the money came with 
 an air of reluctance. Of course, sne applied to her for 
 her hard earnings, only when pressed by necessity. On 
 the morning before the interview with her sister, just 
 detailed, Mrs. Haller found herself nearly out of every 
 thing, and with not a cent in the world. The woman 
 just alluded to, owed her two dollars, and she had nearly 
 completed another week's washing for her, which would 
 make the amount due her two dollars and a half. At 
 dinner-time, every mouthful of food, and that a scanty 
 portion, was consumed, and there would be nothing for 
 supper, or breakfast, on the next morning, unless Mrs. 
 Hamil should pay her. It was nearly night when she 
 finished ironing the last piece. Hurriedly putting on her 
 things, after sending two of her children with the clothes 
 in a basket, she joined them as they were about entering 
 the dwelling of Mrs. Hamil. 
 
 Her heart beat, audibly to her own ear, as she went in, 
 and asked to see the woman for whom she had been 
 labouring. Although, heretofore, whenever she had ask 
 ed for her money, she had received it, sometimes with 
 reluctance, it is true, yet her extremity being now so 
 great, she trembled lest, from some cause, she should not 
 be able to get the pittance due her. 
 
 For a few moments she sat in the kitchen hesitating to 
 ask for Mrs. Hamil, after the clothes had been given to
 
 448 THE SISTERS. 
 
 the servant. When she did do so, she was told thai she 
 was engaged and could not be seen. 
 
 " Ask her, then, for me, if you please," she said, to send 
 me a dollar. I want it very much." 
 
 The servant went up and delivered her message, and 
 in a few moments came back with the answer, that Mrs. 
 Hamil was engaged, and could not attend to such mat 
 ters ; that she could step in on the next day, and get her 
 money. 
 
 The words fell coldly upon her feelings, and oppressed 
 her with a faint sickness. Then she got up slowly from 
 her chair, hesitated a moment, took one or two steps 
 towards the door, and then pausing, said to the servant, 
 
 " Go up and tell Mrs. Hamil, that I am sorry to trouble 
 her, but that I want the money very much, and that if she 
 will send it down to me, she will confer a very great 
 favour, indeed." 
 
 " I had rather not," the servant replied. " She didn't 
 appear .pleased at my going up the first time. And I am 
 sure she will be less pleased if I go again." 
 
 " But you do not know how much I am in want of this 
 money, Jane " and the poor woman's voice quivered. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Haller, I will try again," the kind-hearted 
 girl said, " but I can't promise to be successful. Mrs. 
 Hamil is very queer sometimes." 
 
 In a few minutes Jane returned with a positive refusal. 
 Mrs. Hamil couldn't and wouldn't be troubled in that 
 way. 
 
 In a state of half-conscious, dreamy wretchedness, did 
 Mrs. Haller turn her steps slowly homewards. The 
 shadows of evening were falling thickly around, adding 
 a deeper gloom to her feelings. 
 
 " O, mother ! I J m glad you 've come, /'m so hungry !" 
 cried one of her little ones, springing to her side as she 
 entered. " Won't we have supper soon, now ?" 
 
 This was too much for her, and she sank exhausted 
 and almost fainting into a chair. Tears soon brought 
 temporary relief to an overburdened heart. Then she 
 soothed her hungry little ones as well as she could, pro 
 mising them a good supper before they went to bed. 
 
 " But why can't we have it now ?" urged one, more 
 impatient, or more hungry, than the rest.
 
 THE SISTERS. 449 
 
 " Because mother hasn't got any good bread for little 
 Henry " she replied " But she will have some soon. 
 So all be good children, and wait until mother goes out 
 and gets some bread and meat, and then we will all have 
 a nice supper." 
 
 After quieting the importunities of her children in this 
 way, and soothing little Thomas, who was sick and fret 
 ful, Mrs. Haller again left them, and bent her steps, with 
 a reluctant spirit, towards the comfortable dwelling of her 
 sister, nearly a mile away from where she lived. The 
 interview with that sister has already been given. 
 
 When she turned away, as has been seen, empty-hand 
 ed, from the door of that sister, it was with feelings that 
 few can imagine. It seemed to her as if she were for 
 saken both of earth and heaven. How she got home, 
 she hardly knew, but when she entered that cheerless 
 place she found her poor sick child, for whom she had no 
 money to buy medicine, burning with fever, and crying 
 bitterly. Her brutal husband was snoring on the bed 
 the smaller children quarrelling among themselves, and 
 her oldest boy, half-intoxicated, leaning over the back of 
 a chair, and swinging his body backward and forward in 
 the idiotcy of drunkenness. As she entered, the children 
 crowded round her, asking fretfully for their suppers ; but 
 nothing had she to give them, for she had come away 
 empty-handed and repulsed from the door of her affluent 
 sister, to whose dwelling she had gone solely to ask for 
 some food for her children ! In the momentary energy of 
 despair she roused her husband rudely from the bed, and 
 bade him, in an excited tone, to go and get some bread 
 for the children. The brute, angered by her words and 
 manner, struck her a blow upon the head, which brought 
 her senseless to the floor. 
 
 An hour at least passed before she recovered her sen 
 ses ; when she opened her eyes, she found herself on a 
 bed, her sister sitting by her side, weeping, and Mr. Wil 
 liams standing over her. Her husband was not there, 
 some of the children were crying about the room, and 
 others had fallen asleep on the floor. The oldest boy was 
 sitting in the position before-mentioned. 
 
 Brief explanations were made, and Mrs. Williams offer 
 ed a faint apology for her harsh treatment. The appea* 
 55
 
 450 THE SISTERS. 
 
 of her sister had touched her feelings, and she had pro 
 posed to Mr. Williams to go over and see her. On enter 
 ing her dwelling they found her senseless on the floor, 
 and the children screaming around her. The husband 
 was not there. 
 
 As soon as the mother's voice was heard by the small- 
 est child, a little girl, she climbed up the side of the bed, 
 and simply, and earnestly, in lisping tones, asked for a 
 ' piece of bread." The poor woman burst into tears, 
 and turned her head away from her child. Mrs. Wil 
 liams went to the closet, saying "Come, Emma, I will 
 get you some bread." The little thing was at her side in 
 a moment. But the search there was in vain. 
 
 " Where is the bread, Sally ?" she asked. 
 
 " There is none in the house," faintly murmured the 
 almost broken-hearted mother. 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Mr. Williams "you are not 
 without food, surely ?" 
 
 " We have tasted nothing to-day," was the startling 
 reply. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Haller?" 
 
 " I know not he left the house a short time ago*" 
 
 " He ran out when he struck you, mother," spoke up 
 the little child who had asked for the bread. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Williams looked at each other for some 
 moments in silence. 
 
 " Get a basket and come with me, John," said Mr. Wil 
 liams, to the oldest boy, who was gazing on with indiffer 
 ence or stupidity. 
 
 Mechanically he took a basket and followed his uncle. 
 They soon returned with bread, dried meat, ham, &c., 
 and in a brief space, a comfortable meal was prepared 
 for the starving family. 
 
 Conscience felt about the heart of Mrs. Williams that 
 nignt, with touches of pain, and she repented of her cruel 
 neglect, and unkind treatment of her sister. She dream 
 ed not of the extent of her destitution and misery sim 
 ply, because she had refused to make herself acquainted 
 with her real condition. Now that the sad reality had 
 been forced upon her almost unwilling eyes, a few re 
 turning impulses of nature demanded relief for her suf 
 fering sister.
 
 THE SISTERS. 451 
 
 Mr. Williams, whose benevolent feelings were easily 
 excited, was shocked at the scene before him, and blamed 
 himself severely for not having earlier become acquaint 
 ed with Mrs. Mailer's condition. He immediately set 
 about devising means of relief. Haller had become so 
 worthless that he despaired of making him do anything 
 for his family. He therefore invited his sister-in-law to 
 come home to our house, and bring her two youngest 
 girls with her. The rest were provided with places. 
 The family had grown pretty large, and she could assist 
 in sewing, &c., and thus render a service, and live com 
 fortably. Mrs. Williams seconded the proposition, though 
 not with much cordiality ; she could not, however, make 
 any objections. 
 
 We look at the sisters now in a different relation. The 
 superior in dependence on the inferior. Can any for a 
 moment question the result ? 
 
 It was not without a struggle that poor Mrs. Haller 
 consented to disband her little family and virtually to 
 divorce herself from her husband. No matter how cruel 
 the latter had been, nor how deplorable the condition of 
 the former, her heart still retained its household affections, 
 and would not consent willingly to have her little flock 
 scattered perhaps for ever. But stern necessity knows 
 no law. In due time, with little Emma, and Emily, Mrs. 
 Haller was assigned a comfortable room over the kitchen, 
 and became a member of our family. All of us in the 
 shop felt for her a warm interest, but hesitated not to ex 
 press among ourselves a regret that she could do no better 
 than to trust herself and little ones to the tender mercies 
 of a sister, whom we knew too well to respect. 
 
 At first, Mrs. Haller was employed in needle-work, but 
 as she was neither a very fast nor neat sewer, her sister 
 soon found it better policy to let her do the chamber- 
 work, and sometimes assist in cooking. For about three 
 months, her situation was comfortable, except that her 
 children were required to act "just so," and were driven 
 about and scolded if they ventured to amuse themselves 
 in the yard, or anywhere in the sight or hearing of their 
 aunt. Her own children were indulged in almost every 
 thing, but her little nieces were required to be as staid 
 and circumspect as grown-up women. After about six
 
 452 THE SISTERS. 
 
 months had elapsed, Mrs. Williams began to find faul 
 with her sister for various trifles, and to be petulant and 
 unkind in manner towards her. This thing was not done 
 right, and the other thing was neglected. If she sat down 
 for half an hour to sew for herself or children, something 
 would be said or hinted to wound her, and make her feel 
 that she was viewed by her sister in no other light than 
 that of a hired servant. 
 
 Something occurring to make the kitchen-servant leave 
 her place, Mrs. Haller cooked and attended in her situa 
 tion until another could be obtained. There was, how 
 ever, no effort made to procure another ; week after week 
 passed away, and still all the menial employments of the 
 house and the hard duties of the kitchen fell upon Mrs. 
 Haller. From her place at the first table, where she sat 
 for a short time after she came into the house, she was 
 assigned one with us. To all these changes she was not 
 indifferent. She felt them keenly. But what could she 
 do ? Unfortunately for her, she had been so raised (as 
 too many of our poor, proud, fashionable girls are now 
 raised) as to be almost helpless when thrown upon her 
 own resources. She was industrious, and saving; but 
 understood nothing about getting a living. Therefore, 
 she felt that endurance was her only present course. It 
 was grievous to the heart to be trampled upon by a sister 
 whose condition was above her's ; but as that sister had 
 offered her an assylum, when in the utmost destitution, 
 she resolved to bear patiently the burden she imposed 
 upon her. 
 
 It was now tacitly understood between the sisters that 
 Sally was to be kitchen-servant to the other. And as a 
 servant she was treated. When company were at the 
 house, she was not to know them or sit down in the par 
 lour with them. Her little ones were required to keep 
 themselves out of the family sitting-room, and Mrs. Wil- 
 liams's children taught, not by words, but by actions, to 
 look upon them as inferiors. From confinement, and 
 being constantly checked in the outburst of their feelings, 
 they soon began to look much worse than they did when 
 first taken from their comfortless abode. The youngest, 
 a quiet child, might usually be found sitting on a little 
 stool by her mother in the kitchen, playing with some
 
 THE SISTERS. 453 
 
 trifling toy ; but the other was a wild little witch, who 
 was determined to obey no arbitrary laws of her aunt's 
 enacting. There was no part of the house that she did 
 not consider neutral ground. Now she would be playing 
 with her little cousins in the breakfast-room, or in some 
 of the chambers, and now clambering over the shop-board 
 among the boys and journeymen. All liked her but Mrs. 
 Williams, and to her she was a thorn in the flesh, because 
 she set at defiance all her restrictions. This was a cause 
 of much trouble to Mrs. Haller, who saw that the final 
 result would be a separation from one or both of her chil 
 dren. The only reason that weighed with her and caused 
 her to remain in her unpleasant and degraded situation, 
 was the ardent desire she felt to keep her two youngest 
 children with her. She could not trust them to the tender 
 mercies of strangers. Deep distress and abject poverty 
 had not blunted a single maternal feeling, and her heart 
 yearned for her babes with an increased anxiety and ten 
 derness as the chances every day appeared less in favour 
 of her retaining them with her. One had nearly grown 
 up, and was a sorrow and an anguish to her heart. Two 
 others, quite young, were bound out, and but one of them 
 had found a kind guardian. And now, one of the two 
 that remained she feared would have to be removed from 
 her. 
 
 One day, her sister called her into the sitting-room, 
 where she found a lady of no very prepossessing appear 
 ance. 
 
 " Sally," said she, " this is Mrs. Tompkins. She has 
 seen Emily, and would like to have her very much. You, 
 of course, have no objections to getting so good a plac^ 
 for Emily. How soon can you get her ready to go ? 
 Mrs. Tompkins would like to have her by the first of next 
 week." 
 
 Thus, without a moment's warning, the oreaded blow 
 fell upon her. She murmured a faint assent, named an 
 early day, and retired. She could not resist the will of 
 her sister, for she was a dependant. 
 
 In the disposition of other people's children, we can be 
 governed by what we call rational considerations; but 
 when called upon to part with our own helpless offspring, 
 how differently do we estimate circumstances! Every
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 day we hear some one saying, " Why don't she put out 
 her children ?" and, " Why don't she put out her chil 
 dren ? They will be much better off." And perhaps these 
 children are but eight, nine, and ten years old. Mother ! 
 father ! whoever you may be, imagine your own children, 
 of that tender age, among strangers as servants (for that 
 is the capacity of children who are thus put out) required 
 to be, in all respects, as prudent, as industrious, as re 
 nouncing of little recreations and pleasures as men and 
 \vomen, and subject to severe punishments for all childish 
 faults and weaknesses, such as you would have borne 
 xvith and gently corrected. Don't draw parallels between 
 your own and poor people's children, as if they were to 
 be less regarded than yours. Even as your heart yearns 
 over and loves with unspeakable tenderness your offspring, 
 does the mother, no matter how poor her condition, yearn 
 over and love her children and when they are removed 
 from under her protecting wing, she feels as keen a sor 
 row as would rend your heart, were the children of your 
 tenderest care and fondest love, taken from you and placed 
 among strangers. 
 
 In due time, Emily was put out to Mrs. Tompkins, a 
 woman who had wonderful fine notions about rearing up 
 children so as to make men and women of them, (than 
 her own, there were not a more graceless set in the whole 
 city.) She had never been able to carry into full prac 
 tice her admirable theories in regard to the education of 
 children among her own hopefuls ; because first : Johnny 
 was a very delicate boy, and to have governed him by 
 strict rules, would have been to have ruined his constitu 
 tion. She had never dared to break him of screaming by 
 conquering him, in a single instance, because the rupture 
 of a blood-vessel would doubtless have been the conse 
 quence, or a fit in which he might have died. Once 
 indeed she did try to force him to give up his will, but he 
 grew black in the face from passion, and she had hard 
 work to recover him after this he was humoured in 
 everything. And Tommy was a high-spirited and gener 
 ous fellow, and it would have been a pity to warp his fine 
 disposition. Years of discretion would make him a 
 splendid specimen of perfect manhood. Angelina, (a for 
 ward, pert little minx,) was, from her birth, so gentle, so
 
 THE SISTERS. 455 
 
 amiable, so affectionate, that no government was neces 
 sary and Victorine was so naturally high-tempered, that 
 her mother guarded against the developement of anger by 
 never allowing her to be crossed in anything. 
 
 In Emily, Mrs. Tompkins supposed she had found a 
 fine subject on which to demonstrate her theories. A 
 wilful, spoiled child, she was, eleven years of age, and 
 needed curbing, and in a few days Mrs. Tompkins found 
 it necessary to exercise her prerogative. Emily was, of 
 course, put right to work, so soon as she came into the 
 house. Her first employment was to sweep up the break 
 fast-room, after the maid had removed the breakfast-things 
 and placed back the table. She had never handled a 
 broom, and was, of course, very awkward. With this 
 awkwardness, Mrs. Tompkins had no patience, and once 
 or twice took the broom from her hand, and directed her 
 how to hold and use it, in a high tone, and half-angry 
 manner. In due course she got through this duty ; and 
 then was directed to rock the cradle, while Mrs. Tomp 
 kins went through her chamber and made herself look a 
 little tidy. Sitting still a whole hour was a terrible trial 
 to Emily's patience, but she made out to stick at her post 
 until Mrs. Tompkins re-appeared. She was then sent 
 into the cellar to bring up three or four armfuls of wood, 
 and immediately after to the grocer's for a pound of soap, 
 then to the milliner's with a band-box. When she return 
 ed, it was about eleven o'clock, and she was set to help 
 one of the servants wash the windows, which were taken 
 out of the frames and washed in the yard. This occupi 
 ed until twelve. Then she must rock the cradle again, 
 which she did until one o'clock, when it waked, and she 
 had to sit on a little chair and hold it, while the family 
 dined. Her own dinner was afterwards put on a plate, 
 and she made to stand by the kitchen-table and eat it. 
 All the afternoon was taken up in some employment or 
 other, and as soon as supper was over (which she eat, as 
 before, standing at the kitchen-table) she was sent to bed 
 and glad she was to get there, for she was so tired she 
 could hardly stand up. 
 
 The next day passed in the same unrelaxing round of 
 duties, and the third commenced in a similar way. The 
 little thing had by this time become almost sick from such
 
 456 THE SISTERS 
 
 constant confinement and extra labour for one of her 
 strength. She was set, on this day, to scrub down a pair 
 of back stairs, a task to which she was unequal. Before 
 she had got down to the third step, she accidentally upset 
 the basin and flooded the whole stair-case dashing the 
 dirty-water in the face of Mrs. Tompkins who was just 
 coming up. She was a good deal frightened, for Mrs. 
 Tompkins had shown so much anger towards her on dif 
 ferent occasions in the last three days, and had once 
 threatened to correct her, that she feared punishment 
 would follow the accident. A slight box on the ear was 
 indeed administered. Trembling from head to fool with 
 fear, and weakness, for the child was by no means well, 
 she brought up another basin of water, and commenced 
 scouring the steps again. By some strange fatality, the 
 basin was again upset, and unfortunately fell in the face 
 of Mrs. Tompkins again. A cruel chastisement followed, 
 with a set of leather thongs, upon the poor child's bare 
 back and shoulders. 
 
 That night the child came home to her mother, and 
 gave a history of her treatment. Her lacerated back 
 was sufficient evidence how cruelly she had been pun 
 ished. The little thing was in a high fever, and moaned 
 and talked in her sleep all night. 
 
 Finding that the child was not sent back in the morn 
 ing, Mrs. Williams wished to know the reason, and was 
 told the real condition of Emily. 
 
 "She's a bad child, Sally, and has no doubt deserved 
 a whipping ! You have spoiled your older children by 
 mistaken kindness, and will spoil the rest. But I can tell 
 you very distinctly that I am not going to be a party in 
 this matter, and will not consent that Emily stay here 
 any longer. So, if you don't send her back to Mrs. 
 Tompkins, you may get her a place somewhere else, foi 
 after this week she shall not stay here. She has almost 
 ruined my Clara, now!" 
 
 To this, poor Mrs. Haller made no reply. Her home 
 at our house had only been endured because there she 
 thought she could keep her babes with her. She left the 
 presence of her unfeeling sister, and began to study how 
 she could manage to support herself and two children by 
 her own unaided exertions. Many plans were suggested
 
 THE SISTERS. 457 
 
 to her mind, but none seemed to promise success. At 
 length she resolved to rent a small room, and put into it 
 a bed, a table, and a few chairs, with some other neces 
 sary articles which she still had, and then buy some kind 
 of vegetables with about five dollars that were due her, 
 and go to market as a huckster ! Let not the sentimental 
 and romantic turn away in disgust. When humanity is 
 reduced to a last resource, be it what it may, the heart 
 endures pains, and doubts, and fears of a like character, 
 whether the resource be that offered to a noble lady, or 
 a lonely widow. 
 
 Before Saturday night, Mrs. Haller had found a room 
 near the market that just suited her, which she rented at 
 two dollars a month with the use of the cellar. When 
 she made known to Mrs. Williams her intention of leav 
 ing her house, and told her how she intended to make a 
 living, the latter was almost speechless with surprise. 
 
 'Surely, Sally," said she, "you cannot be in earnest?" 
 
 ' Indeed I am in earnest, though 1" 
 
 1 But consider the disgrace it will be to your family." 
 
 'Nothing is disgraceful that is honest." 
 
 ' I never will consent to your being a huckster : Sally ! 
 if you do so disgrace yourself as to stand in the market 
 and sell potatoes and cabbages, I will disown you ! You 
 have a comfortable home here, and where then is the use 
 of your exposing yourself in the market-house 1" 
 
 " You will not let Emily stay here with me, and I can 
 not part with my poor babes." A flood of tears burst 
 forth, even though she struggled hard to conceal them. 
 
 " You are very weak and foolish, Sally. Emily will be 
 much better off, away from you. She is growing up a 
 spoiled child, and needs other care than yours. You are 
 too indulgent." 
 
 " In any case, Mary, I am determined to keep these 
 children with me. I know that it is riot pleasant for you 
 to have them here, and I don't want to have them in your 
 way. The best thing I can do is that which I have 
 determined on." 
 
 " If you will go, why not take in sewing, or washing 
 and ironing?" 
 
 " Simply, because I cannot make a living with my 
 needle, and my health will not permit me to stand over the 
 
 5o
 
 458 THE SISTERS. 
 
 wash-tub from morning till night. There is no resource 
 left me but the market-house, reluctantly as I go there." 
 
 " Well, Sally, you can do as you please. But let me 
 tell you, that if you do turn huckster, I will never own 
 you as my sister again." 
 
 " Any such foolish and rash resolution on your part, 
 I should regret very much ; for, unkindly and unfeelingly 
 as you have acted towards me, I have no wish to dissolve 
 the* tie of nature." 
 
 " It shall be dissolved, you may rely upon it, if you do 
 so disgraceful a thing." 
 
 On Saturday she got what was due to her, and on 
 Monday removed to her new abode. Of all this, Mr. 
 Williams had not the slightest knowledge. After getting 
 her room fixed up, she went down to the wharf and 
 bought a few bushels of potatoes, and some apples : with 
 these she went to the market. Her feelings in thus ex 
 posing herself, can only be imagined by such as have had 
 to resort to a similar method of obtaining a livelihood, 
 when they first appeared in the market-house. She had 
 not been long at her stand, when Mr. Williams, who gen 
 erally went to market, came unexpectedly upon her. 
 
 " Why, Sally, what in the world are you doing here ?" 
 was his surprised salutation. 
 
 " Why, didn't you know that I had left your house for 
 the market-house?" 
 
 " No ! How should I know ? You never told me that 
 you were going." 
 
 " But surely sister did 1" 
 
 " Indeed she did not." 
 
 " She knew last week that I was going, and that I had 
 determined to make a living for myself and children in 
 this way." 
 
 ' I am sorry you left our house, Sally ! You should have 
 had a home there as long as I lived. You must not stay 
 here, anyhow. Something better can be done for you. 
 Surely you and Mary have not quarrelled 1" 
 
 " She has renounced me for ever !" 
 
 Mr. Williams was a good deal shocked by this unex 
 pected interview', and when he went home inquired into 
 the state of affairs. He censured his wife severely for 
 her part in the matter, upon her own statement ; and told 
 her plainly that she had not treated Sally as a sister should
 
 THE SISTERS. 459 
 
 have been treated. He went to see Mrs. Haller that day, 
 and used many arguments to induce her to come back, or 
 at least to give up her newly-adopted calling. 
 
 " Put me in a better and more comfortable way of 
 making a living, Mr. Williams," was her answer "and I 
 will most gladly adopt it. I know of no other that will 
 suit me. I cannot longer remain dependent. In your 
 house I was dependent, and daily and hourly I was made 
 to feel that dependence, in the most galling manner. 
 
 By her first day's efforts in the market-house, Mrs. 
 Haller earned three-quarters of a dollar, with which she 
 bought food for herself and children, and re-invested the 
 original amount. On the next day, as on the first, she 
 disposed of her whole stock, and was so fortunate in her 
 sales as to clear one dollar. On the next day she did not 
 sell more than half of her little stock, and cleared only 
 thirty-seven-and-a-half cents on that. Greatly discouraged 
 she went home at twelve o'clock, and was still further 
 cast down at finding her husband there, come to take up his 
 lodgings, and eat up her meagre earnings from her children. 
 
 She remonstrated against his coming back, but with 
 drunken oath and cruel threats he let her know that he 
 should stay there in spite of her. Before night, her oldest 
 son, a worthless vagabond, also made his appearance, and 
 between them swept off all the food, that she had bought 
 with the profits on her five dollars, which she had resolv 
 ed from the first not to break. On the next morning she 
 cleared a full dollar, and on Saturday, another. But her 
 increased family prevented her adding a cent of the 
 profits to her original capital. After the market on 
 Saturday morning, she went out and bought about three 
 dollars worth of eggs, at ten cents a dozen, which, before 
 night, she sold at twelve-and-a-half cents, thus clearing 
 twenty-five cents on the dollar, or three-quarters of a 
 dollar in all. With a dollar and three-quarters that she 
 had made that day, she laid in a supply of common and 
 substantial food. 
 
 On Sunday she went, as was her custom, to church, 
 and took her two little girls with her. Her husband and 
 son remained at home. When she returned from service 
 they were gone ; instinctively turning to where she had 
 concealed her little treasure, of five dollars, she found 
 that it had also disappeared! She knew well how to
 
 460 THE SISTERS. 
 
 account for its loss. Her husband and son had robbed 
 her ! The little hope that had animated her breast for the 
 last few days, gave way, and she sunk down into a con 
 dition of mind that was almost despair. Towards even 
 ing, her husband and son came home drunk, and lay all 
 night stupid. In the morning, they stole off by day-light, 
 and she was left alone with her little ones, to brood over 
 her melancholy prospect. She could not, of course, go 
 to market, for she had nothing to sell, nor anything with 
 which to purchase a little stock. 
 
 Mr. Williams, who felt a lively interest in her case, 
 especially on account of the unkind treatment she had 
 received from his wife, used to stop and inquire into her 
 prospects whenever he saw her in the market, and had 
 been looking round for something better for her to do. 
 Missing her this morning, he went to her house, and there 
 found her in a state of complete despondency. He en 
 couraged her in the best way he could, but did not ad 
 vance her another little capital, which he would willingly 
 have done under other circumstances, and then went 
 away, determined to get her some situation which would 
 be more suitable for one of her habits and feelings. 
 
 Not an hour after he learned that a head nurse was 
 much wanted at the alms-house. He made immediate 
 application for her, and was happy in securing the place. 
 It was at once offered to her, and she accepted it with 
 gladness, especially as she would be allowed to bring her 
 two children with her. In due time, she removed to her 
 new abode, and soon won the good-will and kind con 
 sideration of the Board of Trustees, and the affectionate 
 regards of those to whose afflictions she was called to 
 minister. Her two little girls were educated at the alms- 
 house school, and grew up amiable, intelligent, and indus 
 trious. Of her other children, I never knew much. 
 
 Mrs. Williams seemed to think the situation of her sister 
 at the alms-house, almost as disgraceful as her place in 
 the market. She never renewed a communication with 
 her. Even up to the hour when Mrs. Haller was called 
 to her final account, which was many years after, her 
 sister neither saw nor spoke to her.
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 THE story of Julia Forrester is but a revelation of what 
 occurs every day. I draw aside the veil for a moment, 
 would that some one might gaze with trembling on the 
 picture, and be saved ! 
 
 The father of Julia had served an apprenticeship to the 
 tanning and currying business. He had been taken when 
 an orphan boy of twelve years old, by a man in this trade, 
 and raised by him, without any of the benefits of educa 
 tion. At twenty-one he could read and write a little, but 
 had no taste for improving his mind. His master, being 
 well pleased with him for his industry and sobriety, 
 offered him a small interest in his business, shortly after 
 he was free, which soon enabled him to marry, and settle 
 himself in life. 
 
 His new companion was the daughter of a reduced 
 tradesman ; she had high notions of gentility, but possessed 
 more vanity and love of admiration than good sense. Nei 
 ther of them could comprehend the true relation of parents. 
 If they fed their children well, clothed them well, and sent 
 them to the most reputable schools, they imagined that 
 they had, in part, discharged their duty; and, wholly, when 
 they had obtained good-looking and well-dressed husbands 
 for their daughters. This may be a little exaggerated ; 
 but such an inference might readily have been drawn by 
 one who attentively considered their actions. 
 
 I shall not spend further time in considering their charac 
 ters. Their counterpart may be found in every street, 
 and in every neighbourhood. The curious student of 
 human nature can study them at will. 
 
 Julia Forrester was the child of such parents. When 
 she was fifteen, they were in easy circumstances. But at 
 that critical period of their daughter's life, they were igno 
 rant of human nature, and entirely unskilled in the means 
 of detecting false pretension, or discovering true merit. 
 
 461
 
 462 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 Indeed, they were much more ready to consider the former 
 as true, and the latter as false. The unpretending modesty 
 of real worth they generally mistook for imbecility, or a 
 consciousness of questionable points of character ; while 
 bold-faced assurance was thought to be an open exhibition 
 of manliness the free, undisguised manner of those who 
 had nothing to conceal. 
 
 It is rarely that a girl of Julia's age, but little over fif 
 teen, possesses much insight into character. It was 
 enough for her that her parents invited young men to the 
 house, or permitted them to visit her. Her favour, or dis 
 like, was founded upon mere impulse, or the caprice of 
 first impressions. Among her earliest visitors, was a 
 young man of twenty-two, clerk in a dry-goods' store. 
 He had an open, prepossessing manner, but had indulged 
 in vicious habits for many years, and was thoroughly 
 unprincipled. His name I will call Warburton. Another 
 visitor was a modest, sensible young man, also clerk in 
 another dry-goods' store. He was correct in all his habits, 
 and inclined to be religious. He had no particular end in 
 view in visiting at Forrester's, more than to mingle in 
 society. Still, as he continued his visits, he began to grow 
 fond of Julia, notwithstanding her extreme youth. The 
 fact was, she had shot up suddenly into a graceful woman; 
 and her manners were really attractive. Little could be 
 gleaned, however, in her society, or in that of but few who 
 visited her, from the current chit-chat. It was all chaffy 
 stuff, mere small-talk. Let me introduce the reader to 
 their more particular acquaintance. There is assembled 
 at Mr. Forrester's a gay social party, such as met there 
 almost every week. It is in the summer time. The win 
 dows are thrown open, and the passers-by can look in 
 upon the light-hearted group, at will. Warburton and 
 Julia are trifling in conversation, and the others are wasting 
 the moments as frivolously as possible. We will join them 
 without ceremony. 
 
 " A more beautiful ring than this on your finger, I have 
 never seen. Do you know why a ring is used in mar 
 riage ?" 
 
 " La ! no, Mr. Warburton. Do tell me." 
 
 " Why, because it is an emblem of love, which has nei 
 ther beginning nor end."
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 463 
 
 " And how will you make that out, Sir Oracle ? ha ' 
 ha!" 
 
 Why as plain as a pike-staff. True love has no be 
 ginning ; for those who are to be married love each other 
 before they meet. And it cannot have an end. So 
 you see that a ring is the emblem of love." 
 
 " That 's an odd notion ; where did you pick it up 7" 
 
 " I picked it up nowhere. It is a cherished opinion of 
 my own, and I believe in it as firmly as some of the Jews 
 of old did in the transmigration of souls." 
 
 " You are a queer body." 
 
 " Yes, I have got some queer notions ; so people say : 
 but I think I am right, and those who don't agree with me, 
 wrong. A mere difference of opinion, however. All 
 things are matters of opinion. Aint it so, Perkins?" ad 
 dressing the young man before alluded to. 
 
 " What were you talking about 7" 
 
 " Why, I was just saying to Julia that all different 
 ideas entertained by different persons, were differences of 
 opinion merely." 
 
 " Do you mean to say, that there is no such thing as 
 truth, or error?" 
 
 " I do in the abstract." 
 
 " Then we differ, of course and as it would be, accord 
 ing to your estimation, a mere difference of opinion, no 
 argument on the subject would be in place here." 
 
 " Of course not," replied Warburton, rather coolly, and 
 dropped the subject. Julia almost saw that Warburton 
 had made himself appear foolish in the eyes of the dull, 
 insipid Perkins but her mental vision was closed up as 
 firmly as ever, in a moment. 
 
 A loud burst of laughter from a group at the other end 
 of the room, drew the attention of the company, who 
 flocked to the scene of mirth, and soon all were chattering 
 and laughing in a wild and incoherent manner, so loud as 
 to attract the notice of persons in the street. 
 
 " Ha ! he ! he !" laughed a young lady, hysterically, 
 sinking into a chair, with her handkerchief to her mouth 
 " what a droll body !" 
 
 " He-a, he-a, he-o-o-o," more boisterously roared out a 
 fun-loving chap, who knew more about good living than
 
 464 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 good manners. And so the laugh passed round. The 
 cause of all this uproar, was a merry fellow, who had 
 made a rabbit out of one of the girl's handkerchiefs, and 
 was springing it from his hand against the wall. He 
 seemed to have a fair appreciation of the character of his 
 associates for the evening ; and though himself perfectly 
 competent to behave well in the best society, chose to act 
 the clown in this. 
 
 In due course, order was restored, more from the ap 
 pearance of a waiter with nuts and raisins, than from an 
 natural reaction. 
 
 " Name my apple, Mr. Perkins," (don't smile, reader 
 it 's a true picture) whispered a young lady to the 
 young man sitting next her. 
 
 " It is named." 
 
 " Name my apple, Mr. Collins," said Julia, with a nod 
 and a smile. 
 
 " It is named." 
 
 " And mine, Mr. Collins" "And mine, Mr. Warbur- 
 ton" " And mine, Mr. Jones." 
 
 The apples being eaten, the important business of count 
 ing seed came next in order. 
 
 ' How many have you got, Julia ?" 
 Six." 
 
 She loves !" 
 1 Who is it, Mr. Collins ?" asked two or three voices. 
 
 ' Mr. Warburton," was the reply. 
 
 ' I thought so, I thought so, see how she blushes." 
 
 And in fact the red blood was mounting fast to Julia's 
 face. 
 
 The incident escaped neither the eye of Warburton nor 
 of Perkins. To go through the whole insipid scene would 
 not interest any reader, and so we will omit it. 
 
 After the apples were eaten, "hull-gull," "nuts in my 
 hand," &c., were played, and then music was called for 
 
 " Miss Simmons, give us an air, if you please." 
 
 " Indeed you must excuse me, I am out of practice." 
 
 "No excuse can be taken. We all know that you can 
 play, and we must hear you this evening." 
 
 " I would willingly oblige the company, but I have not 
 touched the piano for two months, and cannot play fit to 
 be heard."
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 465 
 
 " O,' never mind, we '11 be the judges of that." 
 
 " Come, Miss Simmons, do play for us now, that 's a 
 good soul !" 
 
 " Indeed you must excuse me !" 
 
 But no excuse would be taken. And in spite of pro 
 testations, she was forced to take a seat at the piano. 
 
 " Well, since I must, I suppose I must. What will you 
 have I" 
 
 "Give us Bonny Doon' it is so sweet and melan 
 choly," said an interesting-looking young man. 
 
 " ' Charlie over the Water,' is beautiful I dote on that 
 song ; do sing it, Miss Simmons !" 
 
 " Give us ' Auld Lang Syne.' " 
 
 " Yes, or ' Burns's Farewell.' " 
 
 " ' Oft in the Stilly Night,' Miss Simmons you can 
 sing that." 
 
 " Yes, ' Oft in the Stilly Night,' Miss Simmons/' said 
 half-a-dozen voices, and so that was finally chosen. After 
 running her fingers over the keys for a few moments, Miss 
 Simmons started off. 
 
 Before she had half finished the first verse, the hum of 
 voices, which had commenced as soon as she began to 
 sing, rose to such a pitch as almost to drown the sound 
 of the instrument. She laboured on through about a verse 
 and a half of the song, when she rose from the piano, and 
 was proceeding to her vacant seat. 
 
 " O no ! no ! no !" said half-a-dozen voices at once. 
 " That will never do we must have another song. " 
 
 " Indeed I can't sing to-night, and must be excused," 
 said the lady warmly, and so she was excused. But soon 
 another was chosen to be victimized at the piano, and 
 " will-ye-nill-ye," sing she must. Simultaneous with the 
 sound of the instrument rose the hum of voices, which 
 grew louder and louder, until the performer stopped, dis 
 couraged and chagrined. 
 
 " That's beautiful ! How well you play, Miss Emma !" 
 and Miss Emma was forced to resume the seat she had 
 left half in mortification. All was again still for a mo 
 ment. 
 
 " Can you play the Harp and Lute,' Miss Emma?" 
 
 " No sir." 
 
 " Yes you can, though, for I 've heard you many a 
 57
 
 466 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 
 
 time," said a smart young lady sitting on the opposite side 
 of the room. 
 
 The blood mounted to the performer's cheeks. "In 
 deed you're mistaken though," half pettishly replied Miss 
 Emma. 
 
 " But you can play Yankee Doodle,' " retorted the 
 first speaker. Miss Emma left the instrument in anger. 
 
 " I'll never speak to the pert minx again as long as I 
 live," whispered Miss Emma in the ear of a friend. 
 
 Thus ended the musical exhibition for that evening. As 
 the spirit of wine grew more active, the men became less 
 formal in their attentions, and the young ladies less re 
 served. Before the company broke up, I almost blush to 
 say, that there was scarcely a lady present who had not 
 suffered her red-ripe lips to be touched by those of every 
 young man in the room. And on all these proceedings, 
 the parents of Julia looked on with keen satisfaction! 
 They liked to see the young people enjoying themselves ! 
 
 Then there were rambles by moonlight, during which 
 soft things were whispered in the ears of the young ladies. 
 These were the occasions on which Warburton loved 
 most to steal away the fond confidence of Julia ; and, by 
 degrees, he succeeded in fixing her regard upon himself. 
 
 Consent was asked of the parents, and given ; and soon 
 Julia Forrester was Mrs. Warburton. It was only six 
 months after the marriage that a commercial crisis arrived; 
 one of those reactions from prosperity which occur in this 
 country with singular regularity, every ten or fifteen years, 
 and swept from Julia's father the whole of his property. 
 This sudden revulsion so preyed upon his mind, that a 
 serious illness came on, which hurried him in a brief period 
 to the grave. The mother of Julia soon followed him. 
 Warburton, ere this, had neglected his wife, and wrung 
 from her many a secret tear. He had married her for the 
 prospect of worldly gain which the connection held out, 
 and not from any genuine regard. And when all hope of 
 a fortune was suddenly cut off, he as suddenly appeared 
 in his real character of a heartless and unprincipled man. 
 
 He held the situation of clerk, at the time, in the same 
 store where he had been for years. But immediately upon 
 the death of his father-in-law, a flood of demands for debts 
 due here and there carne in upon him, and not having where-
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 467 
 
 with to meet them, he was thrown into jail, and obtained 
 his freedom only by availing himself of the law made 
 and provided for the benefit of Insolvent Debtors. 
 
 His poor wife knew nothing of the proceedings against 
 him, until he was lodged in the jail. Hour after hour had 
 passed since the time for his return to dinner, and yet she 
 listened in vain for his well-known footsteps. She felt 
 strangely oppressed in feeling when the dim twilight came 
 stealing sadly on, and still he came not home. But when 
 the clock struck nine, ten, eleven, her distress of mind 
 became heightened to agony. The question, so often asked 
 of herself, "Where can he be?" could find no answer. 
 All night long she sat listening at the window, and sunk 
 into a heavy slumber, just as the grey light of morning 
 stole into the window and paled the expiring lamp. From 
 this slumber, which had continued for nearly two hours, 
 she was aroused by the entrance of a servant, who handed 
 her a note, addressed in the well-known hand of her 
 husband. Tremblingly she tore open the seal ; at the first 
 words : 
 
 Jail. 
 
 DEAR JULIA: 
 
 the note fell from her hand, and she pressed her aching 
 head for a moment, as if she feared that her senses would 
 leave her. Then snatching up the paper, she read : 
 
 " Yesterday I was sent here for debt. I owe more 
 than I can possibly pay, and I see no chance of getting 
 out but by availing myself of the Insolvent Law, which I 
 am determined to do. Don't let it trouble you, Julia ; I 
 shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall probably be at 
 liborty. Good-bye, and keep a brave heart, 
 
 H. WARBURTON." 
 
 For some time after reading this letter, a stupor cam 
 over her senses. Utterly unprepared for such a distressing 
 event, she knew not how to act. The idea of a jail had 
 ever been associated in her mind with disgrace and crime, 
 and to think that her own husband was in jail almost be 
 reft her of rational thought. Slowly, however, she at 
 length rallied, and found herself able to appreciate her 
 situation, and to think more clearly on her course of action. 

 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 
 
 Her first determination was to go to her husband. This 
 she immediately did. When admitted, she fell senseless 
 in his arms, and it was a long time before she recovered 
 her consciousness. Her presence seemed to move his 
 feelings less than it annoyed him. There was nothing 
 about his manner that sought affectionately her sympathy 
 and confidence that which gives woman, in situations no 
 matter how distressing, something so much like happiness 
 to bestow. He gave her but little satisfaction as to the 
 manner in which he became involved, and when, after 
 several hours, she prepared to go home, at his suggestion, 
 he told her that she must not come there again, as it was 
 not a fit place for her. 
 
 "If you are here, Henry," was her reply, the tears 
 starting freshly to her eyes "it is a fit place for me." 
 
 " That's all nonsense and sentiment, Julia ! This is no 
 place for you, and you must not come again. I shall be 
 out in a day or two." 
 
 " A day or two is a long long time," and the poor 
 wife's voice trembled as she spoke. 
 
 " It will soon pass away." 
 
 " It will seem ages to me, and you in this dreadful place. 
 I must come to-morrow, Henry. Tell me who h'as im 
 prisoned yon, and I will go to him, and come to-morrow 
 with his answer. He cannot stand the pleadings of a wife 
 for her husband." 
 
 " It 's no use, at all, Julia. He is a hard-faced villain, 
 and will insult you if you see him." 
 
 " He cannot he dare not !" 
 
 " He dare do anything." 
 
 " Dear Henry, tell me his name." 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! It 's no use to ask me." 
 
 She had many times before suffered from his petulanc 
 and coldness ; but under present circumstances, when she 
 sought to bring him sympathy and relief, to be repulsed, 
 seemed as though it would break her heart. Slowly and 
 in tears did she leave the dreadful place that confined her 
 husband, and sought her home. There she endeavoured 
 to rally her scattered thoughts, and devise some means 
 of relief. Her first movement was to go to the employers 
 of her husband. They received her coldly, and after she 
 Had stated the condition of her husband, told her that they
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 469 
 
 could offer no relief, and hinted that his conduct had been 
 such as to forfeit their confidence. This was a double 
 blow ; and she returned home with but strength enough 
 to seek her chamber and throw herself, almost fainting, 
 upon her bed. 
 
 For hours she lay in a kind of nervous stupor, the most 
 fantastic and troubled images floating through her brain. 
 Sometimes she would start up, at the imagined sound of 
 her husband's voice, and spring to the chamber-door to 
 meet him. But the chilling reality would drive her back 
 in tears. Where now were the crowds of friends that 
 but a short time since had hovered round her? They were 
 but fashionable, soulless insects the cold winds of adver 
 sity had swept them away. Since the failure and death 
 of her father, not one of the many who had called her 
 friend had come near her lonely dwelling. But she could 
 not complain. More than one friend had she deserted, 
 when misfortune came suddenly upon them. 
 
 She took no food through the whole of that dreadful 
 day, and could find no oblivious sleep during the night of 
 agony that followed. On the next day, just as she had 
 determined to go again to the prison, her quick ear recog 
 nised the foot-fall of her husband. She sprang to meet 
 him, with a gladder heart than she had known for many 
 weeks but his cold manner and brief words threw back 
 upon her feelings a sickening chill. 
 
 " We must move from here, Julia," said he, after a few 
 silent moments, and looked at her as though he expected 
 objection as a matter of course. 
 
 " I am willing, if it is necessary, Henry. I will go any 
 where with yon" 
 
 Her manner softened his feelings, and he said more 
 tenderly, 
 
 " Things are changed with me, Julia. In expectation 
 of something handsome from your father, I have been im 
 prudent, and am now largely in debt. The Messrs. R. & 
 L. will not, I am sure, take me back into their store, and 
 it will be hard, I am afraid, for me to get a situation, in 
 town. Our furniture, which I have secured to you, is all 
 we have, except about money enough to pay our quarter's 
 rent now due. I see no wiser plan for us than to sell this 
 furniture, except enough for one chamber, and then go to 
 

 
 470 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 boarding. It will bring a sum sufficient to pay our board 
 and other expenses for at least one year, if we manage 
 prudently ; and, surely, I can get something to do in the 
 mean time." 
 
 " I am willing for anything, dear Henry !" said his wife, 
 twining her arms about his neck, and laying her pale cheek 
 to his. The furniture was accordingly sold, and the 
 reduced and humbled couple removed to a boarding- 
 house. 
 
 As he had expected, Warburton found it hard to get 
 employment. Finally, after doing nothing for two months, 
 he accepted the situation of bar-keeper at one of the city 
 hotels. Julia pleaded hard with him not to go there, for 
 she feared the influence of such a place upon him, but 
 he would listen to no argument. 
 
 His wife soon began to observe indications of a change 
 for the worse in his character. He grew more pettish 
 and dissatisfied, and frequently acted towards her with 
 great unkindness. He was rarely, if ever, at home before 
 midnight, and then repulsed every affectionate act or 
 word. Several times he came in intoxicated, and once, 
 while in that state, he struck her a severe blow on the 
 head, which caused an illness of 'several weeks. 
 
 At the end of a year, Warburton had not only become 
 dissipated in his habits, but had connected himself with a 
 set of gamblers, who, as he proved to be a skilful hand, 
 and not at all squeamish, resolved to send him on a trip 
 down the Ohio and Mississippi, to New Orleans, for mu 
 tual benefit. To this he had not the slightest objection. 
 He told his wife that he was going to New Orleans on 
 business for the Stage Office, and would probably be gone 
 all winter. Unkind as he had grown, it was hard part 
 ing. Gladly would she have taken all the risk of fatigue, 
 to have accompanied him with her babe but four months 
 old, but he would listen to no such proposal. When he 
 did go, she felt sick at heart, and, as the thought flashed 
 across her mind that he might probably desert her, help 
 less and friendless as she was, it seemed as if the fever of 
 her mind would end in madness. 
 
 Regularly, however, for several months, she heard from 
 him, and each time he enclosed her money ; but little 
 more than was sufficient to meet expenses. In the last
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 471 
 
 letter she received, he hinted that he might return home 
 in a few weeks. At the usual time of receiving a letter, 
 she waited day after day, hoping and almost fearing to 
 receive one anxious to hear from him, and yet fearing 
 that he might have changed his mind as to his contem 
 plated return. 
 
 Week after week passed, and there were no tidings. 
 Day after day she went to the post-office with an anxious 
 heart, which throbbed quicker and quicker as the clerk 
 mechanically and carelessly turned over letter after letter, 
 and at last pronounced the word "none" with profes 
 sional indifference. Then it would seem to stop, and lie 
 like a motionless weight in her bosom, and she would steal 
 away paler and sicker than when she came. At last, her 
 distress of mind became so great, that she went, reluc 
 tantly, to the stage-office, to inquire if they had heard 
 from him recently. To her hesitating, anxious inquiry, 
 she received the brief reply that they knew nothing of 
 him. 
 
 " But is he not in the employment of this office ?" 
 
 " I hope not," was the short, sneering reply of one of 
 the clerks. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" she asked, in an excited 
 tone " he is my husband." 
 
 The manner of the man instantly changed. " Nothing, 
 ma'am. It was only a thoughtless reply. He is not, how 
 ever, in our employment, and never has been." 
 
 Mrs. Warburton turned pale as ashes. A chair was 
 instantly handed to her, and a glass of water, and every 
 kind attention offered. 
 
 At this moment a man entered, who eyed Mrs. W. with 
 a vulgar stare. The person who had first spoken to Mrs. 
 W. took him aside, and after conversing in whispers for a 
 few moments, turned to her and said that he had just 
 learned that her husband had joined a band of traders, 
 and was now on his way to Mexico. 
 
 " How do you know ?" was the quick reply. 
 
 " This gentleman has just told me." 
 
 " And how do you know, sir ?" 
 
 " I received a letter from him three weeks ago, in which 
 he stated the fact to me. He has been in my employment
 
 472 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 ever sinoe he has been away, but has left it and gone to 
 Mexico." 
 
 " When did he say he would return ?" she asked, in a 
 calm voice. 
 
 " That is uncertain, madam." 
 
 She tottered out of the office, and stole home with an 
 enfeebled step. "Forsaken! forsaken!" was all the 
 form her thoughts would take, until she met the sweet 
 face of her babe, and then her heart felt warmer, and not 
 all forsaken. 
 
 " Poor thing ! how I pity her," said the clerk in the 
 stage-office, when Mrs. W. had retired. 
 
 " Her husband is a scoundrel, that 's all I know about 
 it," responded the gentleman-gambler, who had sent War- 
 burton out on a swindling expedition. 
 
 " The more the pity for his poor wife." 
 
 " I wonder if she has any property of his in her hands ?" 
 queried the gambler. 
 
 " Why?" 
 
 " Why ? Why because I '11 have my own out of it if 
 she has. I have his note, payable in a week, for money 
 lent ; and if he has got a dollar here, I '11 have it." 
 
 " You '11 not turn his wife out of doors, will you ?" 
 
 " Will I ?" and his face grew dark with evil thoughts 
 " Will I ? yes ! what care I for the whining wench ! 
 I '11 see her to-morrow, and know what we have both to 
 expect." 
 
 " Coulson !" said the clerk, in an excited but firm voice 
 " You shall not trouble that helpless, unfortunate woman!" 
 
 " Shall not ? ha ! Pray, Mr. Sympathy, and how can 
 you hinder me ?" 
 
 " Look you to that, sir. I act, you know, not threaten." 
 
 The gambler's face grew darker, but the clerk turned 
 away with a look of contempt, and resumed his employ 
 ment. 
 
 That night he sought the dwelling of Mrs. Warburton. 
 
 He found her boarding at a respectable house on 
 
 street. He named his business at once, and warned her 
 not to allow herself to get in the power of Coulson, who 
 was a gambler, and an abandoned villain. 
 
 When he understood her real situation that she was in 
 debt for board, and without a dollar, forsaken of her hus
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 473 
 
 band, and among strangers, his heart ached for her. Him 
 self but on the salary of a clerk, he could give little or no 
 assistance. But advice and sympathy he tendered, and 
 requested her to call on him at any time, if she thought 
 that he could aid her. A kind word, a sympathising tone, 
 is, to one in such a sad condition, like gentle dews to the 
 parched ground. 
 
 " Above all," was his parting admonition, " beware of 
 Coulson ! He will injure your character if he can. Do 
 not see him. Forbid the servants to admit him. He will, 
 if he fixes his heart upon seeing you, leave no stone un. 
 turned to accomplish it. Bnt waver not in your determi 
 nation. And be sure to let me know if he persecutes you 
 too closely. Be resolute, and fear not. ' I know the man, 
 and have crossed his path ere this. And he knows me." 
 
 Early on the next day, Coulson called, and with the 
 most insinuating address, asked to see Mrs. Warburton. 
 
 " Ask him to send up his name," was Mrs. W.'s reply 
 to the information of the servant, that a gentleman wished 
 to speak to her. 
 
 " Coulson," was returned. 
 
 " Tell him that I cannot see him." 
 
 To this answer he sent back word that his business was 
 important and urgent. 
 
 " Tell him that I cannot see him," was the firm reply. 
 
 Coulson left the house, baffled for once. The next day 
 he called, and sent up another name. 
 
 " He is the same person who called himself ' Coulson' 
 yesterday," said the servant to Mrs. W. 
 
 " Tell him that I cannot be seen." 
 
 " I '11 match the huzzy yet !" he muttered to himself as 
 he left the house. 
 
 It now became necessary for Mrs. Warburton to rally 
 all the energies of her nature, feeble though they were, and 
 yet untried. The rate' of boarding which she was re 
 quired to pay, was much beyond what she could now 
 afford. At first she nearly gave up to despair. Thus far 
 in life, she had never earned a single dollar, and, from her 
 earliest recollection, the thought of working for money 
 seemed to imply degradation. But necessity soon destroys 
 false pride. Her greatest concern now was, what she 
 should do for a living. She had learned to play on the 
 
 58
 
 .THE MAIDENS ERROR. 
 
 piano, to draw and paint, and had practised embroidery. 
 But in all these she had sought only amusement. In not 
 a single one of them was she proficient enough to teach. 
 Fine sewing she could not do. Her dresses had all been 
 made by the mantua-maker, and her fine sewing by the 
 family sempstress. She had been raised in idle pleasure 
 had spent her time in thrumming on the piano, making 
 calls, tripping about the streets, and entertaining company. 
 But wherever there is the will, there is a way. Through 
 the kind interference of a stranger, she was enabled to act 
 decisively. Two rooms were procured, and after selling 
 various articles of costly chamber furniture which still 
 remained, she was enabled to furnish them plainly and 
 comfortably, and have about fifty dollars left. Through 
 the kind advice of this same stranger, (where were all 
 her former friends ?) employment was had, by which she 
 was soon able to earn from four to five dollars a week. 
 
 Her employment was making cigars. At first, the to 
 bacco made her so sick that she was unable to hold her 
 head up, or work more than half her time. But after 
 awhile she became used to it, and could work steadily all 
 day ; though she often suffered with a distressing head 
 ache. Mrs. Warburton was perhaps the first woman 
 
 who made cigars in . Through the application 
 
 of a third person, to a manufacturer, the work was 
 obtained, and given, from motives of charity. 
 
 She had been thus employed for about three months, 
 and was beginning to work skilfully enough to earn four 
 dollars a week, and give all necessary attention to herself 
 
 and child, when Mr. , the manufacturer, received a 
 
 note signed by all the journeymen in his shop, demanding 
 of him the withdrawal of all work from Mrs. Warburton, 
 on pain of their refusal to work a day longer. It was an 
 infringement, they said, upon their rights. Women could 
 afford to -work cheaper than men, and would ruin the 
 business. 
 
 Mr. was well off, and, withal, a man who could 
 
 brook no dictation, in his business. His journeymen were 
 paid their regular W 7 ages, and had, he knewr, no right to 
 say whom he should employ ; and for any such interfe 
 rence he promptly resolved to teach them a lesson. Ho 
 was, moreover, indignant that a parcel of men, many of
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 475 
 
 whom spent more money at the taverns and in foolish ex 
 penses, in the week, than the poor forsaken mother of a 
 young babe could earn in that time, should heartlessly 
 erideavour to rob the more than widow of her hard-earned 
 mite. 
 
 " I will sacrifice half that I am worth, before I will yield 
 to such dictation," was his only answer to the demand. 
 The foolish men "struck," and turned out to lounge idly 
 in taverns and other places, until their employer should 
 come to terms. They were, however, soon convinced of 
 
 their folly ; for but a few weeks elapsed before Mr. 
 
 had employed females to make his cigars, who could 
 afford to work for one-third less than the journeymen had 
 been receiving, and make good wages at that. The con 
 sequence was, that the men who had, from motives of sel 
 fishness, endeavoured to deprive Mrs. W. of her only 
 chance of support, were unable to obtain work at any 
 price. Several of them fell into idle and dissolute habits, 
 and became vagabonds. Other manufacturers of cigars 
 followed the example of Mr. , and lessened the de 
 mand for journeymen ; and the result in this instance was 
 but a similar one to that which always follows combina 
 tions against employers viz: to injure the interests of 
 journeymen. 
 
 It was not long before Coulson found out the retreat of 
 Mrs. Warburton, and commenced his persecutions. The 
 note of her husband had fallen due, and his first movement 
 was to demand the payment. Perceiving, however, at 
 once, that to make the money out of any property in her 
 possession was impossible, he changed his manner, and 
 offered to befriend her in any way that lay in his power. 
 For a moment she was thrown off her guard; but remem 
 bering the caution she had received, she assumed a man 
 ner of the most rigid coldness towards him, and told him 
 that she already had friends who would care for her. The 
 next day she managed to apprize the clerk in the Stage 
 Office of the visit of Coulson, who promptly took measures 
 to alarm his fears, for he was a coward at heart, and 
 effectually prevent his again troubling her. 
 
 Little of an interesting nature occurred for about a 
 year, when she received a letter from her husband at Cin 
 cinnati. He stated that having despaired of getting along
 
 476 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 in the business he had entered into on leaving , 
 
 which had involved him in debt, he had left with a com 
 pany of traders for Mexico, and had just returned with a 
 little money, with which he wished to go into business. 
 
 But that if he returned to , he would be troubled, 
 
 and all he had taken from him. He enclosed her a hun 
 dred dollar note, and wished her to come to him immedi 
 ately, and to leave without letting any one know 
 
 her destination. He professed much sorrow for having 
 left her in so destitute a condition, but pleaded stern neces 
 sity for the act. 
 
 Mrs. W. did not hesitate a moment. In four days from 
 the time she received the letter, she was on the way to 
 Cincinnati. Arrived there, she was met by her husband 
 with some show of affection. He was greatly changed 
 since she had seen him, and showed many indications of 
 irregular habits. He appeared to have plenty of money, 
 and took rooms for his wife in a respectable boarding- 
 house. The improvement in his child pleased him much. 
 When he went away it was only about five months old 
 now it was a bright little boy, and could run about and 
 chatter like a bird. After some hesitation in regard to the 
 kind of business he should select, he at last determined to 
 go into the river-trade. To this Mrs. Warburton gently 
 objected ; because it would keep him away from home for 
 months together. But his capital was small, and he at 
 length made his first purchase of produce, and started in 
 a flat-boat for New Orleans. Poor Mrs. W. felt as if 
 deserted again when he left her. But at the end of three 
 months he returned, having cleared four hundred dollars 
 by the trip. He remained at home this time for two 
 months, drinking and gambling; and at the expiration of 
 that period had barely enough left to make a small pur 
 chase and start again. 
 
 Her troubles, she plainly saw, were just beginning again, 
 and Mrs. Warburton almost wished herself back again in 
 the city, for which, though there she had no friends, her 
 heart yearned. 
 
 Her husband did not return, this time, from his river- 
 voyage, for three months ; nor did he send his wife during 
 that time any money. The amount left her was entirely 
 exhausted before the end of the second month, and having
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 477 
 
 heard nothing of him since he went away, she feared to 
 get in debt, and, therefore, two weeks before her money 
 was out, applied for work at a cigar-factory. Here she 
 was fortunate enough to obtain employment, and thus keep 
 herself above absolute want. 
 
 Long before her husband returned, her heart had fear 
 ful forebodings of a second blighting of all its dearest 
 hopes. Not the less painful, were those anticipations, be 
 cause she had once suffered. 
 
 One evening in June, just three months from the time 
 her husband left, she had paused from her almost unre- 
 mitted employment, during the violence of a tremendous 
 storm, that was raging without. The thunder rattled 
 around in startling peals, and the lightning blazed from 
 cloud to cloud, without a moment's intermission. She 
 could not work while she felt that the bolt of death hung 
 over her.. For half an hour had the storm raged, when 
 in one of the pauses which indicated its passing away, 
 she started at the sound of a voice that seemed like that 
 of her husband. In the next moment another voice min 
 gled with it, and both were loud and angry. Fearfully 
 she flung open the door, and just on the pavement, drenched 
 with the rain, and unregardful of the storm, for one more 
 terrible raged within, stood two men, contending with 
 each other in mortal strife, while horrible oaths and im 
 precations rolled from their lips. One of these, from his 
 distorted face, rendered momently visible in the vivid 
 flashes of the lightning, and from his voice, though loud 
 and disguised by passion, she at once knew to be her hus 
 band. His antagonist was not so strong a man, but he 
 was more active, and seemed much cooler. Each had in 
 his hand an open Spanish knife, and both were striking, 
 plunging, and parrying thrusts with the most malignant 
 fury. It was an awful sight to look upon. Two human 
 beings striving for each other's lives amid the fury of a 
 terrible storm, the lightnings of which glanced sharply 
 upon their glittering knives, revealing their fiend-like 
 countenances for an instant, and then leaving them in 
 black darkness. 
 
 For a few moments, Mrs. Warburton stood fixed to the 
 spot, but, recalling her scattered senses, she rushed towards 
 the combatants, calling upon them to pause, and repeating
 
 478 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 the name of her husband in a voice of agony. The result 
 of the strife was delayed but an instant longer, for with a 
 loud cry her husband fell bleeding at her feet. His an 
 tagonist passed out of sight in a moment. 
 
 Lifting the apparently lifeless form of her husband in 
 her arms, Mrs. Warburton carried or rather dragged him 
 into the house, and placed him upon the bed, where lay 
 their sleeping boy. She then hurried off for the nearest 
 physician, who was soon in attendance. 
 
 The first sound that met the ear of Mrs. Warburton, on 
 her return, was the voice of her dear child, eagerly calling, 
 " Pa ! pa ! wake up, pa !" And there was the little fellow 
 pulling at the insensible body of his father, in an extacy 
 of infantile joy at his return. 
 
 " Pa come home! Pa come home, mamma!" And 
 the little fellow clapped his hands, and shook the body of 
 his father in the effort to wake him. 
 
 The mother gently lifted her child from the bed. His 
 little face instantly changed its expression into one of fear, 
 when he looked into his mother's countenance. " Pa 's 
 very sick, and little Charles must keep still," she whispered 
 to the child, and sat him down in the next room. 
 
 When the physician arrived, he found that the knife had 
 entered the left breast just above the heart, but had not 
 penetrated far enough to destroy life. There were also 
 several bad cuts, in different parts of his body, all of which 
 required attention. After dressing them, he left the still 
 insensible man in the care of his wife and one of his assist 
 ants, with directions to have him called should any alarm 
 ing symptom occur. It was not until the next morning 
 that there was any apparent return of consciousness on 
 the part of the wounded man. Then he asked in a feeble 
 voice for his wife. She had left the bed but a moment 
 before, and hearing him speak, was by his side in an 
 nstant. 
 
 "Julia, how came I here? What is the matter?" said 
 he, rousing up, and looking anxiously around. But over 
 come with weakness from the loss of blood, he sank back 
 upon the bed, and remained apparently insensible for some 
 time. But he soon showed evidence of painful recollec 
 tion having returned. For his breathing became mqre 
 laboured, under agitated feelings, and he glanced his eyes
 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 479 
 
 about the room with an eager expression. After a few 
 minutes he buried his face in the bed-clothes and sighed 
 heavily. Distinct, painful consciousness had returned. 
 
 In a few days he began to grow stronger, and was able 
 to sit up ; and with the return of bodily vigour came back 
 the deadly passions that had agitated him on the night of 
 his return home. The man, he said, had literally robbed 
 him of his money, (in fact, won it) ; had cheated him out 
 of every dollar of his hard-earned gains, and he woulo 
 have his life. 
 
 When hardly well enough to walk about, Warburton 
 felt the evil influence of his desire for revenge so strong, 
 as to cause him to seek out the individual who, he con 
 ceived, had wronged him, by winning from him, or cheat 
 ing him out of his money. They met in one of the vile 
 places in Cincinnati, where vice loves to do her dark work 
 in secret. Truly are they called hells, for there the love 
 of evil and hatred of the neighbour prompt to action. 
 Every malignant passion in the heart of Warburton was 
 roused into full vigour, when his eyes fell upon the face 
 of his former associate. Instantly he grasped his knife, 
 and with a yell of fiendish exultation sprang towards him, 
 like some savage beast eager for his prey. The other 
 gambler was a cool man, and hard to throw off of his 
 guard. His first movement was to knock Warburton 
 down, then drawing his Spanish knife, he waited calmly 
 and firmly for his enemy to rise. Blind with passion, 
 Warburton sprang to his feet and rushed upon the other, 
 who received him upon the point of his knife, which en 
 tered deep into the abdomen. At the same instant, War- 
 burton's knife was plunged into the heart of his adversary, 
 who staggered off from its point, reeled for a few seconds 
 about the room, and then fell heavily upon the floor. He 
 was dead before the cool spectators of the horrid scene 
 could raise him up. 
 
 From loss of blood Warburton soon fainted, and wnen 
 he came to himself, he found that he had been conveyed 
 to his home, and that his weeping wife stood over him. 
 There were also others in the room, and he soon learned 
 that he was to be conveyed, even in the condition he was 
 then in, to prison, to await his trial for murder. 
 
 In vain did his poor heart- stricken wife plead that he
 
 480 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 might be left there until he recovered, or even until his 
 "wound was dressed ; but she pleaded in vain. On a litter, 
 faint from loss of blood, and groaning with pain, he was 
 carried off to prison. By his side walked her whom no 
 ill treatment or neglect could estrange. 
 
 Three months he was kept in jail, attended daily by his 
 uncomplaining wife, who supported herself and little boy, 
 with her own hands, sparing much for her husband's com 
 fort. The wound had not proved very dangerous, and 
 long before his trial came on, he was as well as ever. 
 
 The day of trial at length came, and Mrs. Warburton 
 found that it required her strongest efforts to keep suffi 
 ciently composed to comprehend the true nature and bear 
 ing of all the legal proceedings. Never in her life before 
 had she been in a court of justice, and the bare idea of 
 being in that, to her awful, place, stunned at first all her 
 perceptions ; especially as she was there under circum 
 stances of such deep and peculiar interest. 
 
 Next to her husband, in the bar, did this suffering woman 
 take her place: and that husband arraigned before his 
 country's tribunal for the highest crime murder ! How 
 little did she dream of such an awful situation, years be 
 fore, when a gay, thoughtless, innocent girl, she gave up 
 in maiden confidence, and with deep joy, her affections to 
 that husband. Passing on step by step, in misery's paths, 
 she had at last reached a point, the bare idea of which, 
 had it been entertained as possible for a moment, would 
 have almost extinguished life. Now, her deep interest in 
 that husband who had abused her confidence, and almost 
 extinguished hope in her bosom, kept her up, and enabled 
 her to watch with unwavering attention every minute 
 proceeding. 
 
 After the indictment was read, and the State's Attorney, 
 in a comprehensive manner, had stated the distinct fea 
 tures of the case, which he pledged himself to prove by 
 competent witnesses, poor Mrs. Warburton became sick 
 and faint. A clearer case of deliberate murder could not, 
 it seemed to her, be made out. Still, she was sure there 
 must be palliating circumstances, and longed to be per 
 mitted to rise and state her impressions of the case. Once 
 she did start to her feet, but a right consciousness returned 
 before she had uttered a word. Shrinking into her seat
 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 481 
 
 again, she watched with a pale face and eager look, the 
 course of the proceedings. 
 
 Witness after witness was called on the part of the state, 
 each testifying distinctly the fact of Warburton's attack 
 upon the murdered man, and his threat to take his life. 
 Hope seemed utterly to fail from the heart of the poor 
 wife, when the testimony on the part of the prosecution 
 closed. But now came the time for the examination of 
 witnesses in favour of the prisoner. Soon Mrs. Warbur- 
 ton was seen upon her feet, bending over towards the 
 witness' stand, and eagerly devouring each word. Rapid 
 changes would pass over her countenance, as she compre 
 hended, with a woman's quickness of perception, rendered 
 acute by strong interest, the bearing which the evidence 
 would have upon the case. Now her eye would flash 
 with interest and her face become flushed and now her 
 cheek would pale, and her form seem to shrink into half 
 its dimensions. Oh ! who can imagine one thousandth 
 part of all her sufferings on that awful occasion 1 When, 
 finally, the case was given to the jury, and after waiting 
 hour after hour at the court-house, to hear the decision, 
 she had to go home long after dark, in despair of knowing 
 the result before morning, it seemed hardly possible that 
 she could pass through that night and retain her senses. 
 She did not sleep through the night's long watches how 
 could she sleep 1 Hours before the court assembled, she 
 was at the court-house, waiting to know the fate of one, 
 who now, in his fearful extremity, seemed dearer to her 
 than ever. Slowly passed the lingering minutes, and at 
 length ten o'clock came. The court-room was filled to 
 suffocation, but through the dense crowd she made her 
 way, and took her place beside her anxious husband. The 
 court opened, and the foreman of the jury came forward 
 to read the verdict. Many an eye sought with eager cu 
 riosity, or strong interest, the face of the wife. Its calm 
 ness was strange and awful. All anxiety, all deep interest 
 had left it, and as she turned her eye upon the foreman, 
 none could read the slightest exhibition of emotion. 
 " GUILTY OF MURDER IN THE SECOND DEGREE !" Quick as 
 thought a hundred eyes again sought the face of Mrs. 
 Warburton. It was pale as ashes, and her insensible form 
 
 59
 
 482 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 was gently reclining upon the arm of her husband, which 
 had been extended to save her from falling. 
 
 When recollection returned, she was lying upon her own 
 bed, in her own chamber, with her little boy crying by 
 her side. Those who had, from humane feelings, con 
 veyed her home, suffered the dictates of humanity to die 
 in their bosoms ere her consciousness returned ; and thus 
 she was left, insensible, with no companion but her child. 
 
 In due course, Warburton was sentenced to eight years 
 imprisonment, the first three years to be passed in solitary 
 confinement. During the first term, no person was to be 
 allowed to visit him. The knowledge of such a sentence 
 was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Warburton. She parted 
 from him in the court-room, on the day of his sentence, 
 and for three long, weary years, her eyes saw him not 
 again. 
 
 But a short time after the imprisonment of Warburton, 
 another babe came into the world to share the misery of 
 her whose happiness he had, in all his actions, so little 
 regarded. When able again to go about, and count up 
 her store, Mrs. Warburton found that she had little left 
 her beyond a willing heart to labour for her children. It 
 would have been some comfort to her if she had been per 
 mitted to visit her husband, but this the law forbade. 
 
 " Despair is never quite despair," and once more in her 
 life did Mrs. Warburton prove this. The certainty that 
 there could be no further dependence upon her husband, 
 led her to repose more confidently in her own resources, 
 for a living, and they did not fail her. She had long since 
 found out that our necessities cost much less than our 
 superfluities, and therefore she did not sit down in idle 
 despondency. Early in the morning and late at night was 
 she found diligently employed, and though her compen 
 sation was not great, it was enough to supply her real 
 wants. 
 
 For two years had she supported thus with her own 
 hands herself and children. The oldest was now a smart 
 little fellow of five years, and the youngest a fair-haired 
 girl of some two summers. Thus far had she kept them 
 around her; but sickness at last came. Nature could not 
 always sustain the heavy demands made upon her, and at 
 last sunk under them.
 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 4S3 
 
 There are many more cases of extreme suffering in this 
 country than persons are generally willing to believe. 
 These extreme cases are among those whose peculiar 
 feelings will not allow of their making known their real 
 condition. They are such as were once members of some 
 social circle, far removed indeed from the apparent 
 Chances of poverty. Their shrinking pride, their yearning 
 desire for independence clings closer and" closer to them, 
 and operates more and more powerfully, as they sink lower 
 and lower, from uncontrollable causes, into the vale of 
 want and destitution. Beggars with no feelings, and no 
 claims beyond those of idleness and intemperance, thrust 
 themselves forward, and consume the bread of charity, 
 that should go to nourish the widow and the orphan, who 
 suffer daily and nightly, rather than ask for aid. 
 
 One to whom the idea of eating the bread of charity 
 had ever been a painful and revolting one, was Mrs. War- 
 burton. So long as she was able, she had earned with 
 untiring industry, the food that nourished her children. 
 But close confinement, insufficient nourishment, labour 
 beyond her strength, and above all, a wounded spirit, at 
 last completed the undermining work, which threw down 
 the tottering and feeble health that had long kept her at 
 her duties. 
 
 It was mid-winter when she was severely attacked by 
 a bilious-pleurisy. For some weeks she had drooped 
 about, hardly able to perform half her wonted labour 
 most of that time suffering from a hard cough and distress 
 ing pain in the side, which was augmented almost to 
 agony while bending steadily, and for hours over her 
 work. Taking, as it did, all that she could earn to keep 
 herself and children in comfort during the winter, she had 
 nothing laid up for a time of more pressing need ; and, as 
 for the last few weeks, she had earned so little as to have 
 barely enough for necessaries, when helplessness came, 
 she was in utter destitution, Her wood was just out, ex 
 cept a few hard, knotted logs ; her flour was out, and her 
 money gone. When she could no longer sit up, she sent 
 her little boy for a physician, who bled her, and left her 
 some powerful medicines. The first gave temporary re 
 lief, and the latter reduced her to a state of great bodily 
 and mental weakness. He did not call in again until the
 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 
 
 second day, when he found the children both in bed with 
 their mother, who was suffering greatly from a return of 
 the pain in her side. The room was chilly, for there was 
 no fire, and it was intensely cold without, and the ground 
 covered with a deep snow. He again bled her, which 
 produced immediate relief, and learning that she had no 
 wood, called in at the next door, where lived a wealthy 
 family, and stated the condition of their poor neighbour 
 A child of six years old stood by his mother while the 
 physician was speaking. The lady seemed much affected 
 when told of the sufferings of the poor woman, politely 
 thanked the physician for making her acquainted with the 
 fact, and promised immediate attention. 
 
 That evening there was to be at this house a large party. 
 Extra servants had been employed that day, and all was 
 bustle and preparation. 
 
 " Sarah," called the lady, a few minutes after, to her 
 
 housekeeper " Sarah, Dr. H was here just now, and 
 
 said that the poor woman who lives next door is sick and 
 out of fuel. Tell John to take her in an armful of wood, 
 and do you just step in and see what more she is in want 
 of." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," responds Sarah, and muttering to her 
 self some dissatisfaction at the order, descends to the 
 kitchen, and addresses a sable man-servant, and kind of 
 doer-of-all-work-in-general, in doors and out, 
 
 "John, Mrs. says you must take an armful of 
 
 wood in to Mrs. Warrington ; I believe that is the woman's 
 name who lives next door." 
 
 " Who 1 de woman whose husband in de Penetentrary ?" 
 
 " Yes, that's the one, John." 
 
 " Don't love to meddle wid dem guess sort of folks, Miss 
 Sarah. 'Druder not be gwine in dere," responds the 
 black, with a broad grin at his own humour. 
 
 " Well, I don't care whether you do or not," responds 
 Sarah, and glides swiftly away, satisfied to do one part 
 of her order and forget the other, which related to her 
 
 going in to see the poor woman herself. Mrs. shifted 
 
 off the duty on her housekeeper, and she contented herself 
 by forgetting it. 
 
 Little William, who was present with his mother when 
 the doctor called, was, like all childi en, a true republican,
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 485 
 
 and had often played with the child of the sick woman, 
 fie had seen his little playmate but a few times since the 
 cold weather set in ; but had all his sympathies aroused, 
 at the doctor's recital. Being rather more suspicious of 
 the housekeeper than his mother, and no doubt for good 
 reasons best known to himself, he followed on to the 
 kitchen, and was an ear-witness to what passed between 
 John and the sub-mistress of the mansion. 
 
 " Come, John, now that 's a good fellow," said he to the 
 negro, after the housekeeper had retired, " take in some 
 wood to poor Mrs. Warburton." 
 
 " 'Fraid, Massa Billy, 'deed. 'Fraid of penetentiary 
 ha! ha!! ha!!!" 
 
 " She can't help that, though, John. So come along, 
 and take the wood in." 
 
 " 'Fraid, i'deed, Massa Billy." 
 
 " Well, if you don't, I '11 take it in myself, and dirty all 
 my clothes, and then somebody will find it out, without 
 my turning tell-tale." 
 
 John grinned a broad smile, and forthwith, finding him 
 self outwitted, carried in the wood, and left it in the mid 
 dle of the floor, without saying a word. 
 
 Towards evening, just before the company assembled, 
 little William, not at all disposed to forget, as every one 
 else had done, the poor sufferers next door, went to the 
 housekeeper's room, where she was busy as a bee with 
 preparations for the party, and stationed himself in the 
 door, accosted her with 
 
 " Miss Sarah, have you been in to see Mrs. Warburton. 
 as ma told you, to-day ?' 
 
 " That 's no concern of yours, Mr. Inquisitive." 
 
 " But I 'd just like to know, Miss Sarah ; 'cause I 'm 
 going in myself, if you hav'nt been." 
 
 " Do you suppose that I have not paid attention to wha 
 your ma said ? I know my own business, without instruc 
 tion from you." 
 
 " Well, I don't believe you 've been in, so I don't, that's 
 all ; and if you don't say yes or no at once, why, you see, 
 I '11 go right in myself." 
 
 " Well (coaxingly) never mind, Billy, I haint been in, 
 I 've been so busy ; but just wait a little bit, and I '11 go 
 There 's no use of your going ; you can't do nothing."
 
 486 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 " I know that, Miss Sarah, and that *s why I want you 
 to go in. But if you don't go in, I will, so there, now !" 
 
 " Well, just wait a little bit, and I '11 go." 
 
 The child, but half satisfied, slowly went away, but lin 
 gered about the passages to watch the housekeeper. 
 Night, however, came on, and he had not seen her going. 
 All were now busy lighting up, and making the more im 
 mediate and active preparations for the reception of com 
 pany, when he met her in the hall, and to his, " Look here, 
 I say, Miss Sarah," she hurried past him unheeding. 
 
 The company at last assembled, and the hours had 
 passed away until it was nine o'clock. Without, all was 
 cold, bleak, and cheerless. Within, there was the perfec 
 tion of comfort. 
 
 Little William had been absent for some time, but no 
 one missed him. Just as a large company were engaged 
 in the various ways of passing time, dancing, chatting, 
 and partaking of refreshments, the room door opened, and 
 in came Master Billy, dragging in by the hand, a little 
 barefoot fellow about his own age, with nothing on but a 
 clean, well-patched shirt, and a pair of linen trowsers. 
 Without heeding the company, he pulled him up to the 
 glowing grate, and in the fulness of his young benevolent 
 heart, cried out, 
 
 " Here 's fire, Charley ! Warm yourself, old fellow ! 
 Hurrah ! I guess I 've fixed Miss Sarah now." And the 
 little fellow clapped his hands as innocently and as grace 
 fully, as if there had been no one in the room but himself 
 and Charley. 
 
 All was agreeable and curious confusion in a few mi 
 nutes, and scores crowded around the poor child with a 
 lively interest, who, an hour before would have passed him 
 in the street unnoticed. 
 
 " Why, Willy ! what does all this mean ?" exclaimed 
 the father, after something like order had been restored. 
 
 " Why, pa, you see, this is Charley Warburton," began 
 the little fellow, holding the astonished Charley by the 
 hand, and presenting him quite ceremoniously to his father. 
 
 " Doctor H came here to-day, and told ma that his 
 
 mother was sick next door, and that they had no wood. 
 So ma tells Sarah to send John in with some wood, and 
 to go in herself and see if they wanted anything. So Sarah
 
 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 487 
 
 foes and tells John to go and take some wood in. But 
 ohn he wa'nt going to go, till I told him that if he didn't 
 go I would, and if I went to carrying in wood, I'd dirty 
 all my clothes, and then somebody would want to know 
 the reason. So John he carried in some wood. Then I 
 watched Sarah, but she didn't go in. So I told her about 
 it. And then she promised, but didn't go. I told her 
 again, and she promised, but didn't go. I waited and 
 waited until night, and still Sarah didn't go in. Then you 
 see, awhile ago I slipped out the front door, and tried to 
 go in to Mrs. Warburton's. But it was all so dark there, 
 that I couldn't see anybody; and when I called 'Charley,' 
 here, his mother said, softly, ' who 's there,' and I said 
 ' it 's only little Willy. Ma wants to know if you don't 
 want nothing.' Oh, it 's little Willy it 's little Willy !' 
 says Charley, and he jumps on the floor, and then we both 
 came in here. O ! it 's so dark and cold in there do pa 
 go in, and make John build them a fire." 
 
 During the child's innocent but feeling recital, more 
 
 than one eye filled with tears. Mrs. hung down her 
 
 head for a moment, in silent upbraidings of heart, for hav 
 ing consigned a work of charity to neglectful and unfeel 
 ing servants. Then taking her child in her arms, she 
 hugged him to her bosom, and said, 
 
 " Bless you, bless you, my boy ! That innocent heart 
 has taught your mother a lesson she will not soon forget." 
 
 The father felt prouder of his son than he had ever felt, 
 and there were few present who did not almost wish him 
 
 their own. Little Charley was asked by Mr. if he 
 
 was hungry, on observing him wistfully eyeing a piece 
 of cake. 
 
 " We haint had nothin' to eat all day, sir, none of us." 
 
 " And why not, my little man ?" asked Mr. in a 
 
 voice of assumed calmness. 
 
 " 'Cause, sir, we haint got nothin' to eat in the house. 
 Mother always had good things for us till she got sick, 
 and now we are all hungry, and haint got nothin' to eat." 
 
 " Here, Sarah, (to the housekeeper, who came in at the 
 moment) no, not you, either do you, Emma, (to his 
 wife,) give this hungry child some nourishing food with 
 your own hands. He has a claim on you, for the sake of 
 our little Willy."
 
 483 THE MAIDENS ERROR. 
 
 Mrs. was not slow in relieving Charley's wants 
 
 and then, after excusing herself to the company, she visited, 
 with John and Sarah, the humble, uncomplaining child of 
 humanity, who had been suffering, so painfully, in the next 
 house to her comfortable dwelling. 
 
 The light carried by John revealed, in the middle of 
 the floor, the armful of wood, in large logs, almost impos 
 sible to kindle, which the servant had thrown down there 
 
 without a word, or an offer to make a fire. Mrs. 's 
 
 heart smote her when she saw this evidence of her neglect 
 of true charity. Enveloped in the bed-clothes, she found 
 Mrs. Warburton and her little child, the former suffering 
 from pain and fever, and the latter asleep, with tears glis 
 tening on her eyelashes. The room was so cold that it 
 sent chills all over her, as she had come in without throw 
 ing a shawl around her shoulders. 
 
 " I am sorry to find you so sick, and everything around 
 vou so cold and comfortless," she said, addressing Mrs. 
 Warburton. 
 
 " I don't feel so very sick, ma'am, only when I try to 
 sit up, I grow so faint, and have to lie down again. If 
 my little things had anything to eat, I wouldn't mind it 
 much." 
 
 Just then, aroused by the voice of her mother, the little 
 girl awoke, and began moaning and crying. She could 
 not speak plain, and her " bed and mik, mamma" " O, 
 mamma, bed and mik," thrilled every heart-string of Mrs. 
 
 , who had never before in her life witnessed the keen 
 
 distress of a mother while her child asked in vain for 
 bread. She drew the child out of bed, and kissing it, 
 handed it to Sarah, whose feelings were also touched, and 
 told her to take the little thing into her house, and give 
 it to the nurse, with directions to feed it, and then come 
 back. 
 
 By this time, John, rather more active than usual, had 
 kindled a fire, the genial warmth of which began already 
 to soften the keen air of the room. Some warm drinks 
 
 were prepared for Mrs. Warburton ; and Mrs. had 
 
 the satisfaction to see her, in the course of half an hour, 
 sink away into a sweet and refreshing slumber. On 
 glancing around the room, she was gratified, and some 
 what surprised, to see everything, though plain and scanty,
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 4S9 
 
 exhibiting the utmost order and cleanliness. The uncar- 
 peted floor was spotless, and the single pine table as white 
 as hands could make it. " How much am I to blame," 
 \vas her inward thought, " for having so neglected this 
 poor woman in her distress and in her poverty !" 
 
 On returning to her company, and giving a history of 
 
 the scene she had just witnessed, the general feeling of 
 
 asympathy prompted immediate measures for relief, and a 
 
 very handsome sum was placed in the hands of Mrs. , 
 
 by the gentlemen and ladies present, for the use of Mrs. 
 Warburton. Rarely does a social company retire with 
 each individual of it so satisfied in heart as did the com 
 pany assembled at Mrs. 's, on that evening. Truly 
 
 could they say, "It is more blessed to give than to 
 receive." 
 
 The incident just related, possessing a kind of romantic 
 interest, soon became noised about from family to family, 
 and for awhile it was fashionable to minister to the wants 
 of Mrs. Warburton whose health continued very deli 
 cate and to her young family. But a few months passed 
 away, and then one after another ceased to remember or 
 
 care for her. Even Mrs. , the mother of little Billy, 
 
 began to grow weary of charity long continued, and to 
 feel that it was a burdensome task to be every day or two 
 obliged to call in or inquire after the poor invalid. Fi 
 nally, she dismissed the subject from her mind, and left 
 Mrs. Warburton to the tender mercies of Sarah, the house 
 keeper. 
 
 From a state of deep despondence to one of hope, had 
 Mrs. Warburton been raised, by the timely aid afforded 
 through the persevering interference of the little playmate 
 of her son. But she soon began to perceive, after a time, 
 that the charity was only spasmodic, and entered into 
 without a real consideration of her peculiar case. The 
 money given her was the best assistance that could have 
 been rendered, for with this she obtained a supply of wood, 
 flour, meal, potatoes, and some warm clothing for her lit 
 tle ones. But this would not last always, and the multi 
 tude of little nice things sent from this one and that, were 
 of but little service. 
 
 The month of March, so trying to a weak and shattered 
 constitution, found her just well enough to venture out to 
 
 60 

 
 490 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 seek for employment at her old business of cigar-making. 
 She readily obtained work, and again sat down to earn 
 for herself and children, the bread that should nourish 
 them. But she was soon made to feel keenly that her 
 health was not as it had been. A severe pain in the side 
 was her daily companion, and she had to toil on, often 
 sick and faint, from daylight until long after others had 
 sought the grateful repose of their pillows. Painfully alive 
 to a sense of dependence, she was ready at any time to 
 work beyond her strength rather than to eat the bread of 
 charity. This kept her steadily bending over her work, 
 until nature again became exhausted, and she was forced, 
 from direct debility, to suspend her labours for at least 
 the half of every day. As April came in, with an occa 
 sional warm day, her appetite gradually left her, and she 
 began to experience a loathing of food. Weakness, head 
 aches, and other painful warnings of nature, were the 
 consequences. Her earnings were now so small, that she 
 with difficulty procured enough of food for her children. 
 
 She knew that if she would let Mrs. know her 
 
 pressing destitution, food and other necessaries would be 
 supplied ; but she shrank from telling her wants. Find 
 ing, however, that her strength continued to fail, until she 
 was unable to sit up but for a few hours at a time, and 
 that, in consequence of her extreme weakness, the nausea 
 produced by the tobacco was so great, as to render it 
 almost impossible for her to work in it, she made up her 
 
 mind to let her boy go in to Mrs. , with a request to 
 
 send her some little thing that she could eat, in hopes that 
 something from her table might provoke an appetite. 
 
 Mrs. was sitting at her dinner-table, which was 
 
 covered with the luxuries of the season, when little 
 Charley came into the room and handed in his poor mo 
 ther's request. 
 
 "Please, ma'am, mother says will you be so good as to 
 send her some little thing that she could eat. She has no 
 appetite, and not eatin' makes her so weak." 
 
 " Here 's some pie, Charley," struck in little Billy. " It's 
 good, I tell you ! Eat it now ; and ma, do send in Char 
 ley's mother a piece, too : I know she '11 like it." 
 
 But Billy and his mother did not agree in this. The 
 latter thought a little sago would be much better. So
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 491 
 
 she gave Charley a paper in which were a few spoonfuls 
 of sago. 
 
 " Here is some sago, mother," said Charley, on his re 
 turn, " Mrs. says it will do you good." 
 
 Now it so happened that, from a child, she had never 
 liked sago. There was something in it so insipid to her, 
 that she had never felt an inclination to more than taste 
 t. Particularly now did her stomach loathe it. But, 
 even if she had felt an inclination to taste the sago, she 
 had not, at the time, any way to prepare it so as to make 
 it palatable. She did not, however, at the time, send for 
 anything else. She still had some flour and potatoes, and 
 a little change to buy milk, and on these her children fared 
 very well. Healthy food does not cost a great deal in 
 this country, and Mrs. Warburton had long before learned 
 to husband well her resources. 
 
 On the next morning she tried to get up, but fainted 
 away on the floor. Her children were still asleep, and 
 were not even awakened by her fall. It was some time 
 before she recovered sufficiently to crawl upon the bed ; 
 and there she lay, almost incapable of thought or motion, 
 for hours. As feeble nature reacted again, and she was 
 able to think over her situation, she made up her mind to 
 
 send in her little boy again to Mrs. , with an apology 
 
 for not using the sago, and request her to give her some 
 little thing from her table anything at all that would be 
 likely, as she said, " to put a taste in her mouth," and 
 induce an appetite for food. The child delivered the mes 
 sage in the best way he knew how, but some how or other 
 
 it offended the ear of Mrs. , who had begun to be 
 
 tired of what she was pleased to call the importunities of 
 Mrs. Warburton ; though, in fact, she had never before 
 even hinted that she was in want of anything. The truth 
 was, Sarah, the housekeeper, had heard something from 
 somebody, about Mrs. Warburton, and had been relating 
 
 the puerile scandal to Mrs. , who, instead of opposing 
 
 the tattling propensity in her servant, encouraged it, by 
 lending to her silly stories an attentive ear. But the story 
 was false, from beginning to end, as are nearly all the 
 idle rumours which are constantly circulating from one 
 family to another, through the medium of servants. 
 
 " How did she do," she had just been saying to Sarah,
 
 492 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 * before I befriended her ? It is a downright imposition 
 upon my good -nature, and I have no notion of encour 
 aging idleness." 
 
 " The fact is, ma'am," chimed in the maid, " these here 
 poor people, when you once help 'em, think you must be 
 a'ways at it; they find it so much easier to beg than 
 work." 
 
 Just at this stage of conversation, the child timidly pre 
 ferred the humble and moderate request of his sick mo 
 ther ; a request that should have thrilled the heart of any 
 one possessing a single human sympathy. But it came at 
 the wrong moment. The evil of self-love was active in 
 
 the heart of Mrs. , and all love of the neighbour was 
 
 for the time extinguished. She cast upon the child a look 
 so forbidding that the little fellow turned involuntarily 
 to go. 
 
 " Here, Sarah," said she, in a half-angry tone, " send 
 Mrs. Warburton a dried herring. Perhaps that will 'put 
 a taste in her mouth.' " 
 
 And a herring was sent ! 
 
 " It 's a pretty pass, indeed," said Miss Sarah, as the 
 child closed the door, " when beggars become choosers !" 
 
 Only half satisfied with herself, Mrs. turned away 
 
 and made no reply. How differently did she feel on the 
 night, when, with her own hands, she ministered to the 
 wants of this same suffering child of humanity! Then her 
 heart, though melted even to tears, felt a bounding glad 
 ness, from the consciousness of having relieved the suf 
 fering. Now it was heavy and sad in her bosom, and she 
 could not hush the whispers of an accusing conscience. 
 
 Little Charley carried home the herring, and laid it on 
 the bed before his sick mother. His own little heart was 
 
 full, for he could not mistake the manner of Mrs. for 
 
 kindness. Mrs. Warburton looked at the uninviting food, 
 and turned her head away. After awhile, it did seem to 
 her as if the fish would taste good to her, and she raised 
 herself up with an effort, and breaking off a small piece, 
 put it languidly to her, lips. The morsel thrilled upon the 
 nerve of taste, and she ate the greater part of it with a 
 relish she had not .known for many weeks. 
 
 In the mean time the heart of Mrs. smote her so 
 
 severely, when all at once she remembered having lost
 
 THE' MAIDEN'S ERROR. 493 
 
 her appetite after a spell of sickness, and the difficulty 
 with which she regained it ; how during the day, nothing 
 could tempt her to eat, while all night long she would dream 
 of rich banquets, of which she eagerly desired to partake, 
 but which changed to tasteless morsels, when she lifted 
 the inviting food to her lips. For a time she strove against 
 her feelings, but at last gave up, and ringing for the cook, 
 directed her to broil a couple of thin slices of ham very 
 nicely, make a good cup of tea, and a slice or two of 
 toast. When this was ready, it was sent in to Mrs. War- 
 burton. It came just in time, and met the excited appetite 
 of the faint-hearted invalid. It was like manna in the wil 
 derness, and revived and refreshed her drooping frame. 
 
 From this time she gradually regained her appetite and 
 strength ; and had the gratification of being able to earn 
 with her own hands enough for the support of her children. 
 
 This she continued to do until the expiration of the 
 solitary confinement term of her husband. How wearily 
 passed the long, long days and nights, as the time ap 
 proached for her again to look upon the face that had been 
 hid from her sight for three sorrowful years ! The long 
 absence had only excited her affection for him. Not as 
 the dead had she thought of him, but as of the living, and 
 of the suffering. Her own deep poverty, sickness, and 
 anxious concern for her children she counted as nothing 
 to his lonely endurance of life. 
 
 Some weeks before the expiration of the first term of 
 imprisonment, she gathered together all her little store, and 
 having sold many heavy articles, packed the rest, and had 
 them started for Columbus, the capital of the state. She 
 then took a deck-passage for herself and children in a 
 steamboat for Portsmouth, from which place she deter 
 mined to walk, carrying her youngest child, a little girl of 
 nearly three years, in her arms. I will not linger with her, 
 nor trace her toilsome and lonely journey through strange 
 places, continued without a day's intermission, until she 
 at last came in sight of the long-looked-for place. After 
 the time-worn state-house, the next building that met her 
 eye, was the old, dark-looking prison, in which was con 
 fined her husband. How gladly did her eyes greet its 
 sombre walls ! It was the dwelling-place of one, for whom, 
 in all his wanderings, her heart retained its warm emo-
 
 494 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 tions of love. Suddenly, like a parching wind of the desert, 
 came upon her the thought that he might be dead. For 
 three long years she had not been permitted to receive 
 tidings from him, and who could tell, if in that time, the 
 wing of death had not o'ershadowed him? Trembling, 
 weary, and sick at heart, she made her way first to the 
 prison-gate, and there, to her unspeakable joy, she learned 
 that he still lived. 
 
 For many nights previous to the day on which permis 
 sion would be granted her to see him, sleep had parted 
 from her eyelids ; and when the time did come, she was 
 in a high state of mental excitement. Morning slowly 
 dawned upon her anxious eyes, but seemed as if it would 
 never give place to the broad daylight. At last the sun 
 came slowly up from his bright chambers in the east. It 
 was the day on which she should again see her husband ; 
 the long-looked-for, the long-hoped-for. Tremblingly she 
 stole out, ere the day was an hour old, and ran, not 
 walked, to the gloomy dwelling-place of her husband. 
 
 For several days previous she had not been able to keep 
 away from the prison, and the keeper, who knew her 
 errand, had become much interested in her case. He re 
 ceived her kindly, and made instant preparation for the 
 desired interview. 
 
 For three years Warburton had not heard the music of 
 a human voice. Far away from the sight or sound of 
 his fellow-prisoners, he had dwelt alone, visited only by 
 the mute keeper who had brought his daily food, or other 
 wise ministered to his wants. To his earnest and oft-re 
 peated inquiries if nothing was known of his wife and 
 children, for whose welfare a yearning anxiety had sprung 
 up in his breast, he was answered only by a gloomy 
 silence. He did not know, even on the morning of his 
 release from solitary confinement, that the all-enduring 
 companion of his better days had come to cheer his 
 anxious eyes with her presence. Soon after daylight of 
 this morning the door of his cell turned heavily on its 
 hinges, and he was brought out among his fellows, and 
 heard again the sweetest music that had ever fallen upon 
 his ear, the music of the human voice. A stronger thrill 
 of pleasure had never passed through his frame. He felt 
 as though he could remain thus shut out from the rest of
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 495 
 
 the world for ever, so that he could see and talk with his 
 fellow-men. He did not then think of the keen delight 
 that awaited him, for in the first impulse of selfish grati 
 fication he had forgotten the being who loved him better 
 than life. 
 
 An hour had not passed when he was again called for. 
 The door of a private apartment in the keeper's house 
 was thrown open, and he entered alone. There was but 
 one being present : a pale, haggard woman, poorly clad, 
 who tottered towards him with extended arms. At that 
 moment both hearts were too full, and their lips were 
 sealed in silence. But oh ! how eagerly did each bind the 
 other in a long, long embrace ! It seemed as if their arms 
 would never be unlocked. For one hour were they left 
 thus alone. But how were years crowded into that hour; 
 years of endurance terrible endurance! 
 
 It seemed scarcely one-tenth of that short time, when 
 Mrs. Warburton was summoned away, but with the kind 
 permission to visit her husband at the same hour every 
 day. Slowly she passed beneath the ponderous gate, and 
 still more slowly moved away, thinking how long it would 
 be before another day had passed, bringing another blessed 
 interview. 
 
 The case of Warburton and his faithful wife soon came 
 to the ears of the governor, and he having expressed con 
 siderable sympathy for them, the fact was soon made 
 known to Mrs. Warburton, who was recommended to 
 petition him in person for a remission of the sentence. The 
 hint was no sooner given than acted upon, and after a 
 delay of several months of hope and fear, to the joy of 
 her heart, she found her husband at liberty. 
 
 In some of his former business or gambling transactions 
 he had become possessed of a clear title to three hundred 
 acres of land, upon which was a log-cabin, situated about 
 thirty miles eastward from the capital of the state, and 
 nearly upon the national road. Searching among his 
 papers, still preserved by his wife, he found the deed, and 
 as nothing better offered, he started with his family and 
 but ten dollars, to begin the world anew as a backwoods 
 farmer. The few articles of furniture which his wife had 
 preserved, served to render the dilapidated cabin, in which 
 was not a single pane of glass, sash, or shutter, barely
 
 496 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 comfortable. It was early in the spring when they re 
 moved, and though the right time for planting corn and 
 the ordinary table vegetables, yet it would be months 
 before they would be fit to use. In the mean time, a sub 
 sistence must be had. The quickest way to obtain food 
 Warburton found in the use of his rifle, for wild turkeys 
 and deer abounded in the forest. He also managed to take 
 a few dozen turkeys now and then to a neighbouring town, 
 and dispose of them for corn-meal, 'flour, and groceries. 
 In about a month he was enabled to sell one hundred acres 
 of his land for three hundred dollars, one hundred in 
 money, and the balance in necessary things for stocking 
 a farm. He was now fairly started again, with a cow, a 
 horse, and all requisite agricultural implements. 
 
 Mrs. Warburton did not feel satisfied in her own mind 
 that this sudden relief from daily pressing want would be 
 a real benefit to them. She had learned to suspect the 
 reformation which was effected by the force of external 
 circumstances, while no salutary change in the will was 
 going on. For some time, however, she had every reason 
 to be encouraged. Her husband was industrious, and 
 careful to make the best he possibly could out of his farm, 
 and was kind and attentive to her and his children. Their 
 garden, as the summer wore away, presented a rich supply 
 of vegetables, and their corn and potatoes in the fall 
 yielded enough for their use during the winter, besides 
 several bushels for sale. 
 
 The winter, however, did not pass away without seve 
 ral indications on the part of Warburton of a disposition 
 to indulge in the pleasures of the bottle. There had been, 
 in the course of the summer, a tavern erected, about a 
 mile from his dwelling, on the national road ; and here, 
 during the dull winter months, he too frequently resorted, 
 to pass away the hours, with such persons as are usually 
 to be found at these haunts of idleness. 
 
 The income of this house, as a place of accommodation 
 for travellers, was very small, for within four miles of i; 
 stood a tavern and stage-house, kept in a style that had 
 made it known to the travelling public. It was simply a 
 receptacle for the odd change of the neighbours, at times 
 when they had an hour or two to spare from business. 
 Gradually, its business increased, and as gradually the
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 497 
 
 farms of one or two individuals in the neighbourhood, who 
 were, more frequently than others, to be found at the 
 tavern, evinced a corresponding decrease in their flourish 
 ing condition. Fences that never wanted a panel were 
 now broken in many places; and barns that never ad 
 mitted a drop of rain, now leaked at a hundred pores. 
 Once, there was an air of cheerfulness and plenty around 
 their dwellings; now, wives and children looked, the for 
 mer troubled and broken in spirits, the latter dirty and 
 neglected. Where once reigned peace and quietness, 
 existed wrangling and strife. 
 
 During the succeeding farming season, Warburton gave 
 considerable attention cultivating his ground, which in 
 the fall yielded him an abundant return. Still, during the 
 summer, he visited the "White Hall Tavern" too fre 
 quently, and was too often under the bewildering and 
 exciting influence of liquor. The next winter tended 
 greatly to complete the work of dissipation, which had 
 been commenced a year before. Frequently he would 
 come home so much intoxicated as to be lost to all reason. 
 At such times he was not the stupid, good-natured, drunken 
 fool that is often met with ; he was then a cruel, unrea 
 sonable and exacting tyrant. His poor wife and children 
 did not only suffer from his wordy ill temper, but had to 
 endure in silence his blows, and often tremble even for 
 their lives. When sober, an indistinct remembrance of 
 his cruelties and other bad conduct, instead of softening 
 his feelings towards his family, made him moodily silent, 
 or cross and snappish if a word were said to him. 
 
 The constant and almost daily drain of small change 
 for liquor, had nearly exhausted all the money in the house 
 long before the winter was over. The accommodating 
 landlord seemed to discover, as by instinct, this condition 
 of things, and encouraged Warburton to run up a score. 
 He well knew that at any time it was easy to get the pay 
 ment out of a man who had a good farm, well stocked. 
 Not so much for the money to be made at the business, as 
 for the purpose of attracting more persons to his tavern, 
 the landlord of the "White Hall" kept a small stone. At 
 this store, Warburton, long before the winter was over, 
 had also made a pretty large bill. As if to atone for his 
 unkindness to, and neglect of his family, he would rarely 
 
 61
 
 498 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 return from his voluntary visits at the tavern, without 
 bringing home something. A few pounds of sugar to-day, 
 some cheese or fish to-morrow, or some dried fruit on the 
 day after. The excuse, that such and such a thing was 
 wanted, was often made to get away to the public house, 
 and thus scarcely a day passed without a dollar or two 
 being entered against him on the books of the smiling land 
 lord. 
 
 When the spring opened, and his bill was made out, 
 much to his surprise, he found his account to be one hun 
 dred and fifty dollars ! After some two or three weeks' 
 pondering on the matter, during which time he was cross 
 and sulky at home, two fine cows and one of his best 
 horses were quietly transferred from his pasture to the 
 more capacious one of the landlord of the " White Hall ;" 
 and thus his account was squared with Boniface. 
 
 The discouragement consequent upon such a reduction 
 of his stock, tended to make him less industrious and less 
 pleasant. He was constantly grumbling about his expen 
 sive family, and could not afford to send his two oldest 
 children to a school just opened in the neighbourhood, 
 although the master offered to take them both for five dol 
 lars a quarter. His wife, he said, could teach them at 
 home. And in this she was not neglectful, as far as her 
 time allowed. 
 
 How rarely does the drunkard, when once fairly started, 
 stop in his downward course ! How similar is the history 
 of each one ! "Neglect of business neglect of family 
 confirmed idleness abuse of family waste of property 
 and finally, abject poverty. 
 
 In less than three years from the day on which he 
 breathed the air again as a free man free, through the 
 untiring assiduity of his neglected but faithful wife, he 
 struck her to the ground, and unregardful of all the ties of 
 nature, left her alone with her children, in the wilds of the 
 west, after having made over house and farm to the land 
 lord of the " White Hall," for fifty dollars and his bill at 
 the bar. 
 
 Day after day did his poor wife wait and look for him 
 to return, until even hope failed, and she at last, with a 
 heavy heart, commenced the task of recalling her own 
 energies in aid of the little ones around her.
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 499 
 
 But she soon found her condition to be far worse than 
 she had imagined. But a few days passed after her hus 
 band had left her before the hard-hearted tavern-keeper 
 came, and removed everything but the house in which she 
 lived from off the place, and then gave her notice that she 
 must also remove, and in three weeks, as he had rented 
 the farm to a man who wished to take immediate posses 
 sion. 
 
 Hope, the kind and ever attendant angel of the dis 
 tressed, for more than a week seemed ready to depart ; but 
 at the end of that time, a faint desire to return to her 
 native city began to grow into a resolution, and by the 
 time a second week had passed away, she had fully 
 resolved to set out upon the journey. 
 
 But she had only twenty dollars, after disposing of the 
 few things their rapacious creditor had left them, and with 
 this she had to go a journey of nearly five hundred miles, 
 with three children, the oldest about twelve years of age. 
 But when once her mind is made up, there are few things 
 a resolute mother will not undertake for her children. 
 
 By persevering in her applications, day after day, to the 
 wagoners on the national road, she at length so far pre 
 vailed on one of them as to let her and her children ride 
 as far as Zanesville, for the trifle of a dollar or two, in his 
 wagon. 
 
 In the true spirit of success, she looked only at the pre 
 sent difficulty, reserving thought and attention for all suc 
 ceeding difficulties, whenever they might come. In this 
 spirit she cut herself loose from her place in the west, and 
 
 started for , utterly unable to say how she should 
 
 ever reach the desired spot. 
 
 For the first day or two, the wagoner held no conversa 
 tion with her ; he had been unable to resist the promptings 
 of his kind feelings in favour of one who had asked him 
 for aid, although he had much rather not have given her 
 a place in his wagon. By degrees, however, his temper 
 changed, and he occasionally asked a question, or made a 
 passing remark ; and by the time he had reached Zanes 
 ville, he had become so interested in her case, that he 
 refused to take the stipulated price, and kindly offered to 
 
 carry her as far as Wheeling, and to , if he found 
 
 it to his interest to go there.
 
 500 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 The way thus providentially opened for her, few obsta 
 cles remained, and in the course of a few weeks she found 
 herself again in the home of her childhood, the dear spot 
 that had lived in her memory, green and inviting, for 
 years. 
 
 But how changed was the poor sufferer ! But a very 
 few dollars of her money was left. The fatigue of travel 
 ling so long and in so uncomfortable a manner, had gradu 
 ally shaken the props of a feeble body ; and by the time 
 she looked again upon the old, familiar places, her form 
 was drooping with sickness. 
 
 Slowly she descended from the wagon, received her 
 children, one by one, from the hands of the wagoner, 
 thanked him with a tearful look, and tottered away. But 
 where could she go ? She had neither home, nor money, 
 nor friends was sick and faint. Years before, she had 
 tripped lightly along the very street through which she now 
 dragged her weary limbs. She even passed by the same 
 house, and heard the light laughter of thoughtless voices, 
 from the same window from which she had once looked 
 forth in earlier years, a joyful and light-hearted creature. 
 How familiar did that dear spot seem ! but how agonizing 
 the contrast that forced itself upon her ! Little did the 
 merry maiden who looked out upon the pale mother, with 
 drooping form and soiled garments, who gazed up so ear 
 nestly towards her, imagine, that but a few years before, 
 that poor creature looked forth from that same window, a 
 glad-hearted girl. 
 
 Scarcely able to act or decide rationally, for her head 
 ached intensely, and she was burning with fever, Mrs. 
 Warburton wandered about the streets with her three chil 
 dren, one a boy about twelve years old, the other a little 
 girl about nine, and the third, a little one tottering by her 
 side, scarce two years old. All at once, as she turned her 
 
 steps into street, her eye caught sight of the tall 
 
 poplars that indicated the home of the homeless. " I have 
 no home but this," she murmured to herself, and turned 
 her steps instinctively towards the dark mass of buildings 
 
 that stood near the present intersection of and 
 
 streets. 
 
 " Where is your permit ?" said the keeper, as she falter- 
 ingly asked for admission.
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 501 
 
 " I have none," was the faint reply. 
 
 "We cannot take you, unless you bring a permit from 
 one of the commissioners." 
 
 " I don't know any commissioner." 
 
 " Where are you from ?" 
 
 " I have just come to town from the west, and am too 
 sick to do anything. I feel faint, and unable to go farther. 
 Can you not admit me, and let application be made to the 
 commissioners for me?" 
 
 The appearance of Mrs. Warburton too plainly indi 
 cated her sick condition, and the keeper thought it best to 
 admit her for the present. A meeting of the commission 
 ers was held on the same afternoon, and a formal admis 
 sion given. 
 
 The first indication that Mrs. W. had, that she was no 
 longer at liberty to choose or think for herself, was the 
 entire separation of her children from her. True, she was 
 soon too ill to attend to them, but that would have made 
 no difference. After a dangerous illness of many weeks, 
 during most of which time she was insensible to every 
 thing around her, she was again able to droop about a 
 little. Her first questions, after the healthy reaction of 
 body and mind, were about her children ; her first request, 
 to see them. But this was denied. " They are doing 
 well enough," was all the answer she could get. 
 
 " But cannot I see Emma, my little one ? Do let me 
 see her !" 
 
 " It is contrary to the rules of the institution. You can 
 not see her now." 
 
 " When can I see her?" 
 
 " I don't know," and the nurse of the sick woman left 
 her and went to attend somewhere else, utterly insensible 
 to the keen agony of the mother's heart. Was she not a 
 pauper ? What right had she to human feelings ? 
 
 But a mother's love is not to be chained down to rules, 
 or circumscribed by the narrow policy of chartered expe 
 diency. As Mrs. Warburton slowly gained strength, a 
 quicker perception of her situation grew upon her, and 
 she soon determined to know all about her children. In 
 vain had she asked to see them ; but each denial only in 
 creased the desire, and confirmed her resolutions to see 
 them and know all about them.
 
 502 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 One day, when she could walk about a httle, a day on 
 which she knew the board of commissioners were in ses 
 sion, she watched her opportunity, and when the nurse 
 was attending in another part of the room, stole quietly 
 out, and soon made her way to the commissioners' room. 
 
 " Gentlemen, a mother asks your indulgence," was her 
 appeal, as the keeper checked her entrance. 
 
 Let her enter, Mr. ," said one of them. 
 
 " What is your wish, good woman V continued the first 
 speaker. 
 
 I want to see my children." 
 
 Her voice was so low and mournful, and her pale face, 
 which still retained many traces of former beauty, ex 
 pressed so strongly her maternal anxiety, that the hearts 
 of all were touched. 
 
 They looked at each other for a few moments, and after 
 some whispered words, directed that she should be allowed 
 to see her children for half an hour each day. 
 
 The keeper now called their attention to certain of their 
 proceedings, some weeks past, and they found that places 
 had been obtained for two of them, the oldest boy, and the 
 little girl, scarce ten years old. 
 
 " We have obtained good places for two of your chil 
 dren, madam ; the other, aged two years, you can have 
 under your own care, while here." 
 
 " And all without allowing me one word, as to who 
 should take them, or where they should go I My poor 
 little Mary, what can you do as a servant ?" 
 
 " They are well provided for, madam. You can now 
 retire." 
 
 Mrs. Warburton did retire, and with a bleeding heart. 
 Her little Emma was restored to her, and was constantly 
 by her side. She had been two months in the alms-house, 
 when she was strong enough to work, and by a rule of 
 he place, she had to work two months, to pay for her 
 Keeping while sick, before she would be allowed to go out, 
 and maintain herself. 
 
 Slowly and heavily passed the hours for two weary 
 months, when she presented herself for a release from im 
 prisonment. 
 
 " Where can I find my children ?" she asked of the 
 keeper, as she was about to leave.
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 503 
 
 * It is against the rule to give any such information in 
 regard to pauper children. And in this particular instance, 
 it was the request of both persons taking your children, 
 that you should not be told where they were, as they 
 wished to raise them without being troubled by foreign 
 influence." 
 
 The mother attempted no remonstrance, but turned 
 away, and homeless, and almost penniless, leading her 
 little one by the hand, again entered the city where her 
 happiest years had been spent. 
 
 As she passed down a street, she saw on the door of an 
 old brick house, the words " A room to let." She made 
 application, and engaged it, at two dollars a month. A 
 pine table, and an old chair, she bought at a second 
 hand furniture store for a dollar ; and with the other dollar 
 she had left, the pittance saved from the twenty dollars 
 she had when she left Ohio, she bought some bread, dried 
 meat, milk, &c. She had no bed, and was for some time 
 compelled to sleep with her child on the hard floor. 
 
 The art of making cigars, which she had learned years 
 before, and which had more than once stood between her 
 and want, was again brought into use. She applied at a 
 tobacconist's, and obtained work. Giving all diligence, 
 day and night, she was able to make five or six dollars 
 every week, with which, in a short time, she gathered a 
 few comfortable things about her, among which was a 
 bed. 
 
 Two months had passed since she left the alms-house, 
 and still she could gain no tidings of her children. Daily, 
 for an hour or two, had she made search for them, but in 
 the only way she could devise, that of wandering about 
 the streets, in hopes of finding them out on some errand. 
 As the winter drew on, she became more and more 
 anxious and concerned. If her little girl, who was always 
 a delicate child, should be in unkind hands, she sickened 
 at heart to think how much she would suffer. Night after 
 night would she dream of the dear child ; and always saw 
 her in some condition of extreme hardship. 
 
 One night she thought she saw little Mary sitting on 
 the curb-stone. She went up to her, and dreaming that 
 it was very cold, found her bare-foot, thinly clad, and 
 almost perishing. The child threw her little arms, naked
 
 504 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 and icy. cold about her neck, and as her well-known voice 
 sounded in her ears, she awoke. 
 
 She slept no more through that night, and soon after 
 breakfast, started out, being unable, through the uneasiness 
 of her mind, to work. Without questioning the reason 
 why, she naturally wandered in the direction indicated in 
 her dream. When near the place, she was startled by 
 the piercing screams of a child that seemed in great 
 agony, and there was entreaty and supplication mingled 
 in the tones. The voice was like the voice of her own 
 child. She knew it was her own child ; a mother's ear is 
 never deceived. Darting towards the spot, she found a 
 bucket of hot water spilled upon the pavement, from which 
 the vapour was rising in a cloud, and glancing her eye 
 down the alley, she saw her little one half-dragged, half- 
 carried, by the arm, by a tall, masculine woman, who 
 seemed in a violent rage. Following like the wind, she 
 reached the dwelling of the virago as she entered and 
 dashed the child upon the floor. Just as Mrs. Warburton 
 came up, and was lifting it, the woman had obtained a 
 stout cow-hide, and was turning to lacerate the back of 
 the little one, as she had often done before, her face red 
 and expressing the most wicked passions. 
 
 At once Mrs. Warburton felt that only in retreat was 
 their safety, and catching up the child in her arms, she 
 darted out as quickly as she had entered. Not more 
 swiftly, however, did she go, than followed the enraged 
 woman to whom this child of nine years old had been 
 bound to do the work of a woman. Finding herself 
 gained upon by the person in pursuit, she looked about for 
 a place of retreat, and seeing " Magistrate's Office" on a 
 sign, she darted into that lower court of justice. Here she 
 was safe from molestation, until some decision was made 
 in the case, by those deputed to act. A crowd soon 
 gathered about, attracted by the strange sight .of a woman 
 flying with a child in her arms, and another in hot pursuit. 
 The magistrate, who was a humane man, and held his 
 office in a part of his dwelling, instinctively perceived that 
 the mother and her child needed kindness and considera 
 tion, and had them, after examination, removed back into 
 his dwelling, and placed under the care of his wife, while 
 he entered more fully into the merits of the case. 

 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 505 
 
 When Mrs. Warburton was sufficiently at ease to ex 
 amine her child, she found her a pitiable object indeed. 
 Her face, neck, and body were dreadfully scalded, and 
 her back was in scars and welts all over, and in some 
 places with the skin broken and festering. It appeared, 
 from the statement of the child, that the woman she lived 
 with had placed on her head a bucket of scalding water 
 for her to carry to a store, which she was going to scrub 
 out. The heavy weight on her head caused her to lose 
 her balance and fall, when the whole contents of the 
 bucket were spilled over her face and neck, and penetrated 
 through her clothes to the skin, in all directions. 
 
 Of course, she was suffering the most excruciating pain. 
 Medical aid was called in by the magistrate, and every 
 attention extended to the little sufferer, who seemed to 
 forget her pain in the consciousness of her mother's pre 
 sence. 
 
 The inhuman wretch who had thus brutally maltreated 
 a mere child, enraged to a state of insanity in finding her 
 self thwarted in obtaining the child, made an appeal to 
 the city court, then in session, and had all the parties pre 
 sent. It needed but this to give Mrs. W. uncontrolled 
 possession of little Mary. The condition in which the 
 court found the child, added to the touching story of her 
 mother, caused an instant cancelling of the indenture by 
 which the unfeeling woman claimed possession of her. 
 
 In a few days after, Mrs. Warburton found her boy, 
 who, much to her satisfaction, had a good place, with 
 which he was pleased, and was learning a good trade. 
 She was now fairly started again, and as her spirits re 
 vived, her health became much improved. Month after 
 month passed away, and brought with it new sources of 
 comfort, new causes for satisfaction. Of her husband, 
 she now thought with no affection. It is true, earlier feel 
 ings would sometimes return, but with no force, and after 
 moving the waters of her quiet spirit for a moment, would 
 tremble into rest 
 
 When a man once extinguishes his own self-respect, he 
 is a burden to society. But when a husband and father 
 descends so low, he becomes a curse to his family. After 
 abusing them, and making their condition so wretched 
 
 62
 
 506 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 
 
 that even he cannot share it, he will forsake the wife of 
 his bosom and the children of his early love, and leave 
 them to the tender mercies of strangers. But let the mo 
 ther gather her little ones around her, and by toiling early 
 and late, make their condition comfortable, and the bru 
 talized wretch will return and consume the food of his 
 children, and abuse them if they complain. 
 
 A year had passed away, when early one evening in 
 the fall of the year, a man pushed open the door of the 
 room she occupied, and with a " well Julia," took a chair, 
 and made himself at home without further ceremony. 
 Though dirty and ragged, with a beard of a week's 
 growth, and half drunk, Mrs. Warburton could not mis 
 take the form of her wretched husband. 
 
 " O, husband ! can this be you ?" 
 
 " Yes, Julia, this is me. I 've come back at last. I 've 
 tried hard to make something for you and the children, 
 but it is no use, fate is against me ; so here I am again, 
 poor as ever. But give me something to eat, for I 'm 
 hungry as a badger." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Six years had passed away since Warburton had re 
 turned, and the wretchedness which had been with him in 
 his absence, he brought as an abiding guest to the dwelling 
 of his wife. During that time, she had endured sickness, 
 hunger, abuse, and been nigh unto death ; but through it 
 all she had come with a heart still unsubdued, though 
 almost broken. For her children's sakes, two more of 
 whom had been added in that time, she had stood up and 
 breasted the storm. 
 
 At last, her miserable husband, sunk in the lowest depths 
 of drunkenness and degradation, died, as he had lived. 
 
 It was the dawn of a brighter day for Mrs. Warburton 
 when the spirit of her husband took its flight to the world 
 of spirits. Her son was nearly free from his trade, and 
 her oldest girl could assist her greatly in the house, as well 
 as by earning something for their support. 
 
 Content and health having taken up their abode with 
 her, we will leave her to fill up her allotted space in life 
 unobtrusively and peacefully. 
 
 The story of Mrs. Warburton has been introduced as
 
 THE MAIDEN'S ERROR. 507 
 
 another illustration of the ill effects which so often arise 
 from the want of watchfulness on the part of parents, in 
 regard to the characters of the young men who are 
 allowed to visit and play upon the affections of their 
 daughters. It also shows how unconquerable is a mo 
 ther's love. Here a weak, foolish girl, by strong trial, 
 becomes a woman with a strength of mind that nothing 
 can subdue, and, as a mother, overcomes difficulties from 
 which most men would shrink in despair.
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 Wo. 48 North Fourth Street, 
 
 PUBLISHES THE FOLLOWING WORKS BY T. S. ABTHTTR. 
 ARTHUR'S SKETCHES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER, an 
 octaro volume of over 400 pages, beautifully illustrated, and bound in the 
 best English muslin, gilt. 
 
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 octavo pages, is illustrated by spirited engravings, and made particularly 
 valuable to those who like to " see the face of him they talk withal," 
 by a correct likeness of the author, finely engraved on steel. Neat's 
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 In the princely mansions of the Atlantic merchants, and in the rude log 
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 The first story in the volume, entitled " The Methodist Preacher, or 
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 " The Methodist Preacher," Seed Time and Harvest," " Dyed in 
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 is worth the whole price of the volume. Lowell Daystar, Rev. D. C. 
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 There is a fascination about these sketches which so powerfully inter 
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 No library for family reading should be considered complete without 
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 for its neat exterior or valuable contents. Vox Populi, Low. 
 
 The name of the author is in itself a sufficient recommendation of the 
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 Circleville, Ohio. 
 
 The name alone of the author is a sufficient guaranty to the reading 
 public of its surpassing merit. The Argus Gallatin, Miss. 
 
 Probably he has not written a line which, dying, he could wish to 
 eras e. Parkersburg (Fa.) Gazette.
 
 * WORKS OP T. 8. AHTHT7B. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE, with an autobiography 
 and portrait of the author, over 500 pages octavo, with fine tinted engra 
 vings. 
 
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 affect for good all who read. The mechanical execution of the work is 
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 WILD SCENES 
 
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 Webber." N. Y. Literary Examiner. 
 
 " Cooper must look out for his laurels. We find in these books thp 
 same stern and out-door realities of his " Parlor Indians," measured and 
 delineated with more vigor through a single scene, that he has managed to 
 dilute through volumes." The Two Worlds. 
 
 " Mr. Webber is an enthusiastic naturalist, who has spent many years of 
 his life in the woods, alone with nature ; and he writes with the warmth 
 and enthusiasm of one in love with his subject." Arthur's Home Gazette.
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 48 NORTH FOURTH STREET, 
 
 PUBLISHES THE FOLLOWINSG WORKS, 
 
 GREAFEVENTS IN MODERNSSTORY. 
 
 Comprising the MOST REMARKABLE DISCOVERIES, CONQUESTS, 
 REVOLUTIONS, GREAT BATTLES, and other Thrilling Incidents, 
 chiefly in Europe and America, from the commencement of the 
 Sixteenth Century to the present time. Embellished with over 
 500 Engravings by W. CROOME, and other eminent artists. The 
 following are extracts from notices of the press received by the 
 
 Publisher. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " We have here, within the compass of eight hundred pages, the 
 history of those events of modern history, which have been ' big 
 with mighty consequences/ and with which, therefore, all men 
 should become acquainted. Beginning with the discovery of Ame 
 rica, by Columbus that new starting-point of civilization the 
 work proceeds through the history of the various European na 
 tions, culling those great periods when, either "by wars or revolu 
 tions, each nation began to occupy a conspicuous place in the ge 
 neral estimation of men, and to make its influence felt by those 
 without its limits. The late revolutions in Europe, the Mexican 
 war, and the gold discoveries in California, are rapidly and vividly 
 sketched. The illustrations, principally from designs by Croome, 
 are numerous, well executed, serving to impress the striking 
 scenes and characters of history upon the tablet of memory. The 
 whole work, in design and execution, reflects great credit upon all 
 concerned in its production." 
 
 Thrilling Adventures among the Indians. 
 
 Comprising the most remarkable Personal Narratives of events 
 in the early INDIAN WARS, as well as of Incidents in the re 
 cent Indian Hostilities in Mexico and Texas. Illustrated with over 
 300 Engravings, from designs by W, CROOME, and other distin 
 
 guished Artists. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The matter contained in this handsome volume is as well cal 
 culated to give a correct idea of the character of the Indians and 
 their modes of life, as that of any book ever published. All that 
 gives a charm to romance may be found in the narrative contained 
 in this work, but all of them possess the never-failing attractions 
 of truth. The sufferings of numerous captives are also detailed, 
 together with their contrivances of escape from their savage cap 
 tors. The illustrations by the well-known W. Croome, are ex 
 cellent in design and execution, and the printing and binding of 
 the work are fine specimens of each art."
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 28971 
 
 DEC i* 
 
 9198 
 
 Form L9-20m-7,'61(C1437s4)444
 
 3 1158 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REG, NAL BRjjW jjAC UTY 
 
 A 001 372 729 2 
 
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