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The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

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Title: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

Author: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #4627]
                Most recently updated: June 13, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE ***

THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1851.






PREFACE.





To all, as they pass through the world, come "light and shadow."
Though the sun may be in the heavens, clouds often intervene, and
cast deep shadows about our footsteps. But, it is a truth which we
cannot too deeply lay to heart, that, in our life, as in nature, the
exhalations which form the obscuring cloud arise from below. They
are not born in the pure heavens, but spring out of the earth
beneath. If there was nothing evil in the mind, there would be no
cloud in the sky of our being,--all would be "eternal sunshine."

If, therefore, in this book the lights and shadows are blessed; if,
in a word, the clouds often hang heavy and remain long in the sky,
the fault is in those whose histories we have written. But the sky
does not always remain dark. As the heart becomes filled with better
purposes through the trials and pains of adversity, or comes out
purer from the furnace of affliction, the clouds disperse, and the
blessed sunlight comes again. Lay this up for your consolation, all
ye who are in trouble and affliction, and look hopefully in the
future. It will not always remain dark as in the present time.






PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.





ACCOMPANYING this volume, is a brief auto-biography. In circulating
Mr. Arthur's "Sketches of Life and Character," the publisher met so
frequently with an expressed desire to know something of one whose
writings had made him a general favorite that he was led to solicit
a personal sketch, to go with a new collection of his writings. It
is but due to the author to say, that his concurrence in the matter
was not without considerable reluctance. From this sketch it will be
seen that Mr. Arthur is a self-made man, and that he has gained his
present enviable position through long and patient labor, and
against the pressure of much that was adverse and discouraging. In
his elevation he has this pleasing reflection, that in seeking to
gain a high place for himself, he has dragged no one down, but
rather, sought to carry along, in his upward way, all who could be
induced to go with him.

The portrait given in this volume, was engraved from one recently
painted by Lambdin, and is considered a very good likeness. Mr.
Arthur is now in his forty-second year, and looks somewhat younger
than the artist has represented him.

For the information of those who wish to procure Mr. Arthur's
Temperance Tales, the publisher would state, that in "Lights and
Shadows of Real Life," are included all the stories contained in the
recently issued edition of "Illustrated Temperance Tales," besides
nearly two hundred pages of additional matter, thus making a larger,
more miscellaneous, and more acceptable book for all readers.






BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.





In compliance with the earnest request of the publisher of this
volume, I have, with a reluctance that I find it difficult to
overcome, consented to furnish a brief sketch personal to myself.
Although my name has been constantly appearing for some twelve or
fifteen years, yet I have lost none of that, shrinking from
notoriety and observation which made me timid and retiring when a
boy. The necessity to write as a means of livelihood, and to write a
great deal, has brought me so frequently before the public, that I
have almost ceased to think about the matter as any thing more than
an ordinary occurrence; but, now, when called upon to write about
myself, I find that the edge of a natural sensitiveness is quite as
keen as ever. But, I will call the feeling a weakness, and try to
repress it until I have finished my present task.

I was born in the year 1809, near Newburgh, Orange County, New York;
and my eyes first opened on the beautiful scenery of the Hudson. My
earliest recollection is of Fort Montgomery, some six miles below
West Point, on the river, where my parents resided for a few years
previous to 1817. In the Spring of that year, they removed to
Baltimore, which became my place of residence until 1841, when I
came to Philadelphia, where I have since lived.

My early educational advantages were few. There were no public
schools in Maryland, when I was a boy, and, as my father had a large
family and but a moderate income, he could afford to send his
children to school only for a limited period. He knew the value,
however, of a good education, and did all for us in his power.
Especially did he seek to inspire his children with a regard for
religious truth, and, both by precept and example, to lead them into
the practice of such things as were honest and of good rest. In all
this, he was warmly seconded by a mother who still survives; and for
whom, it is but just to say, that her children feel the tenderest
regard--and well may they do so, for they owe her much.

At school, I was considered a very dull boy. My memory was not
retentive, and I comprehended ideas and formulas expressed by others
in a very imperfect manner. I needed a careful, judicious, and
patient teacher, who understood the character of my mind, and who
was able to come down to it with instruction in the simplest and
clearest forms; thus helping me to think for myself and to see for
myself. Instead of this, I was scolded and whipped because I could
not understand things that were never explained. As, for instance, a
slate and pencil were placed in my hands after I had learned to
read, upon which was a sum in simple addition for which I was
required to find an answer. Now, in the word, "Addition," as
referring to figures, I saw no meaning. I did not comprehend the
fact, in connexion with it, that two and two made four. True, I had
learned my "Addition Table," but, strangely enough, that did not
furnish me with any clue towards working out the problem of figures
set for me on my slate. I was then in my ninth year; and I can
remember, to this day, with perfect distinctness, how utterly
discouraged I became, as day by day went by, and still I had not
found a correct result to any one of my sums, nor gained a single
ray of light on the subject. Strange as it may seem, I remained for
several months in simple addition before I knew how to sum up
figures, and then the meaning of addition flashed, in a sudden
thought upon my mind, while I was at play. I had no trouble after
that. During the next week, I escaped both scolding and "belaboring"
(a favorite phrase of my teacher's), and then passed on to
subtraction. Five minutes devoted to an explanation, in some simple
form, of what "Addition" meant, would have saved me the loss of
months, to say nothing of the pain, both mental and bodily, that I
suffered during the time.

With such a mind and such a teacher, it is no wonder that I made but
little progress during the few years that I went to school. Beyond
reading and writing, Arithmetic and English Grammar included the
entire range of my studies. As for Arithmetic, I did not master half
the common rules, and Grammar was to my mind completely
unintelligible.

In the end, my teacher, declared that it was only wasting time and
money to send me to school, and advised my father to put me out to a
trade. This was done. I left home and entered upon an apprenticeship
shortly after passing my thirteenth year.

If I found it extremely difficult to comprehend ideas as expressed
in ordinary written forms, I was not without thoughts of my own. I
had an active mind, and soon after entering upon my apprenticeship
the desire for knowledge became strong. As food for this was
supplied, even though in a stinted measure, the desire gained
strength, and I began a system of self-education that was continued
for years afterwards. Of course, the system was a very imperfect
one. There was no one to select books for me, nor to direct my mind
in its search after knowledge. I was an humble apprentice boy,
inclined from habit to shrink from observation, and preferring to
grope about in the dark for what I was in search off, rather than
intrude my wants and wishes upon others. Day after day I worked and
thought, and night after night I read and studied, while other boys
were seeking pleasure and recreation. Thus, through much
discouragement, the years passed by; and thus time went on, until I
attained the age of manhood, when, defective sight compelled me to
give up the trade I had been acquiring for over seven years.

Beyond this trade, my ability to earn a living was small. My efforts
at self-education had been guided by no definite aims in life. I had
read, studied and thought, more to gratify a desire for knowledge
than to gain information with the end of applying it to any
particular use. The consequence was, that on reaching manhood, I
entered the world at a great disadvantage. My trade, to learn which
I had spent so many years, could not be followed, except at the risk
of losing my sight, which had failed for the three preceding years
with such rapidity that I was now compelled to use glasses of strong
magnifying power. I had but slight knowledge of figures, and was
not, therefore, competent, to take the situation of a clerk. At this
point in my life, I suffered from great discouragement of mind.
Through the kind offices of a friend, a place was procured for me in
a counting room, at a very small salary, where but light service was
required, and where I found but few opportunities for acquiring a
knowledge of business. Here I remained for over three years, almost
as much shut out from contact with the business world as when an
apprentice, and with plenty of time on my hands for reading and
writing, which I improved.

The necessity for a larger income caused me to leave this place, and
accept of one in which a higher ability was required. In 1833 I went
to the West as agent for a Banking Company; but the institution
failed and I returned to Baltimore, out of employment. During all
this time, I was devoting my leisure moments to writing, not that I
looked forward to authorship as a trade--nothing could have been
more foreign to my thoughts;--I continued to write, as I had begun,
prompted by an impulse that I felt little inclination to resist.

At this point in my life, I was induced, in association with a
friend who was as fond of writing as myself, to assume the editorial
charge of a literary paper. And here began, in earnest, my literary
labors, that have since continued with only brief periods of
intermission.

As an author, I have never striven for mere reputation; have never
sought to make a name. Circumstances, over which I had little
control, guided my feet, and I walked onward in the path that opened
before me, not doubting but that I was in the right way. If other
employment had offered; if I had received a good business education,
and been able, through that means, to have advanced myself in the
world, I would, like thousands of others who had an early fondness
for literary pursuits, soon have laid aside my pen and given to
trade the best energies of my mind. But Providence guided my feet
into other paths than these. They were rough and thorny at times,
and I often fainted by the way; yet renewed strength ever came when
I felt the weakest. If my earnest labor has not been so well
rewarded in a money-sense as it might have been had I possessed a
business education at the time of my entrance upon life, my reward
in another sense has been great. Though I have not been able to
accumulate wealth, I have gained what wealth alone cannot give, a
wide-spread acknowledgment that in my work I have done good to my
fellow men. This acknowledgment comes back upon me from all
directions, and I will not deny that it affords me a deep interior
satisfaction. Could it be otherwise? And with this heart-warming
satisfaction, there arises ever in my mind a new impulse, prompting
to still more earnest efforts in the cause of humanity.

My choice of temperance themes has not arisen from any experience in
my own person of the evils of intemperance, but from having been an
eye and ear witness to some of the first results of
Washingtonianism, and seeing, in the cause, one worthy the best
efforts of my pen. The temperance cause I recognized as a good
cause, and I gave it the benefit of whatever talent I possessed. And
I have the pleasant assurance, from very many who have had better
opportunities to know than myself, that my labor has not been in
vain. Thus much I have ventured to write of myself. Beyond this, let
my works speak for me. I can say no more.

Philadelphia, May, 1850.

T. S. A.






CONTENTS.





THE FACTORY GIRL.
THE TWO PICTURES.
BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.
THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.
TIME, FAITH, ENERGY.
FLUSHED WITH WINE.
SWEARING OFF.
THE FAILING HOPE.
TAKING TOLL.
THOU ART THE MAN.
THE TOUCHING REPROOF.
THE TEMPERANCE SONG.
THE DISTILLER'S DREAM.
THE RUINED FAMILY.
THE RUMSELLERS DREAM.
HOW TO CURE A TOPER.
THE BROKEN PLEDGE.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.
WINE ON THE WEDDING NIGHT.
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.
THE IRON WILL.
A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.
THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.
THE FIERY TRIAL.
THE SISTERS.
THE MAIDEN'S ERROR.






THE FACTORY GIRL.





THERE was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. His
farm, once the best tilled and most productive in the neighbourhood,
began to show evidences of neglect and unfruitfulness; and that he
was going behindhand in the world, was too apparent in the fact,
that, within two years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and,
moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three hundred dollars
on a mortgage of his landed property. And yet, Mr. Bacon had not
laid aside his habits of industry. He was up, as of old, with the
dawn, and turned not his feet homeward from the field until the sun
had taken his parting glance from the distant hill-tops.

A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Bacon, well liked by
all his neighbours, and loved by his own household. His two oldest
children died ere reaching the age of manhood; three remained. Mary
Bacon, the eldest of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year,
had been from earliest childhood her father's favourite; and, as she
advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more and more into his
heart. In his eyes she was very beautiful; and his eyes, though
partial, did not deceive him very greatly, for Mary's face was fair
to look upon.

We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheerful-minded man.
And so he was; kind-hearted and cheerful, even though clouds were
beginning to darken above him, and a sigh from the coming tempest
was in the air. Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though
never moody nor perverse in his tempers. Of the change that was in
progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, he did not seem
to be _painfully_ conscious.

Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. A
habit indulged through many years, had acquired a dangerous
influence over him, and was gradually destroying his rational
ability to act well in the ordinary concerns of life. As a young
man, Mr. Bacon drank "temperately," and he drank "temperately" in
the prime of life; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink
"temperately," that is, in his own estimation. There were many,
however, who had reason to think differently. But Mr. Bacon was no
bar-room lounger; in fact, he rarely, if ever, went to a public
house; it was in his own home and among his household treasures,
that he placed to his lips the cup of confusion.

The various temperance reforms had all found warm advocates among
his friends and neighbours; but Mr. Bacon stood aloof. He would have
nothing to do in these matters.

"Let them join temperance societies who feel themselves in danger,"
was his good natured answer to all argument or persuasion addressed
to him on the subject.

He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement. He thought it a good
thing; only, he had in it no personal interest.

And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking "temperately" until habit, from
claiming a moderate indulgence, began to make, so it seemed to his
friends, rather unreasonable demands. Besides this habit of
drinking, Mr. Bacon had another habit, that of industry; and, what
was unusual, the former did not abate the latter, though it must be
owned that it sadly interfered with its efficiency. He was up, as we
have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy at work; but,
somehow or other, his land did not produce as liberally as in former
times, and there was slowly creeping over every thing around him an
aspect of decay. Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly,
the selling part of his business. In fact, his shrewdness of mind
was gone. Alcohol had confused his brain. Gradually he was
retrograding; and, while more than half conscious of the ruin that
was in advance of him, he was not fully enough awake to feel
seriously alarmed, nor to begin anxiously to seek for the cause of
impending evil. And so it went on until Mr. Bacon, suddenly found
himself in the midst of real trouble. The value of his farm, which,
after parting with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but
twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in consequence of bad
culture, and defective management of his stock had reduced that
until it was of little consequence.

The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who kept a tavern
in the village that lay a mile distant from the little white
farm-house of Mr. Bacon. When Dyer commenced his liquor-selling
trade, for that was his principal business, he had only a few
hundred dollars; now he was worth thousands, and was about the only
man in the neighbourhood who had money to lend. His loans were
always made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable,
that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer or
store-keeper have a single dollar. But, a drinking man, who was
gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to him in vain; for
he was the cunning spider watching for the silly fly. More than one
worn-out and run-down farm had already come into his hands, through
the foreclosure of mortgages, at a time of business depression, when
his helpless victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save
them from ruin.

One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood at his rather
poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper rode up. There was
something in his countenance that sent a creeping sense of fear to
the heart of the farmer.

"Good morning, Mr. Dyer," said he.

"Good morning," returned the tavern-keeper, formally. His usual
smile was absent from his face.

"Sharp day, this."

"Yes, rather keen."

"Won't you walk in and take something?"

"No, thank you. H-h-e-em!"

There was a pause.

"Mr. Bacon."

The farmer's eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of Dyer.

"Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them three
hundred dollars," said the tavern-keeper, in a firm voice.

"Can't pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer," returned Bacon, with a
troubled expression; "no use to think of it."

"Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his money. I told
you when I lent it that I might want it at almost any time."

"Oh! no, Mr. Dyer. It was understood, distinctly, that from four to
six months' notice would be given," replied Mr. Bacon, positively.

"Preposterous!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper. "Never thought of such
a thing. Six months notice, indeed!"

"That was the agreement," said Mr. Bacon, firmly.

"Is it in the bond?"

"No, it was verbal, between us."

Dyer shook his head, as he answered,--

"No, sir. I never make agreements of that kind; the money was to be
paid on demand, and I have ridden over this morning to make the
demand."

"It is midwinter, Mr. Dyer," was replied in a husky voice.

"Well?"

"You know that a small farmer, like me, cannot be in possession, at
this season, of the large sum you demand."

"That is your affair, Mr. Bacon. I want my money now, and must have
it."

There was a tone of menace in the way this was said that Mr. Bacon
fully understood.

"I haven't thirty dollars, much less three hundred, in my
possession," said he.

"Borrow it, then."

"Impossible! money has not been so scarce for years. Every one is
complaining."

"You'd better make the effort, Mr. Bacon, I shall be sorry to put
you to any trouble, but my money will have to be forthcoming."

"You will not enter up the mortgage?" said the farmer.

"It will certainly come to that, unless you can pay it."

"That is what I call oppression!" returned Mr. Bacon, in momentary
indignation, for the utterance of which he was as quickly repentant.

"Good morning," said Dyer, suddenly turning his horse's head, and
riding off at a brisk trot.

For nearly five minutes, old Mr. Bacon stood with his axe resting on
the ground, lost in painful thought. Then he went slowly into the
house, and sitting down before the fire, let his head sink upon his
breast, and there mused on the trouble that was closing around him.
But there came no ray of light, piercing the thick darkness that had
fallen so suddenly.

Nothing was then said to his family on the subject, but it was
apparent to all that something was wrong, for the lips that gave
utterance to so many pleasant words, and parted so often in cheerful
smiles, were still silent."

"Are you not well, to-day?" asked Mrs. Bacon, as the family gathered
around the dinner-table, and she remarked her husband's unusually
sober face.

"Not very well," he replied.

"What ails you, father?" said Mary, with tender concern in her
voice, and her eyes were turned upon him with affectionate
earnestness.

"Nothing of much consequence, child," was answered evasively. "I
shall be better after dinner."

And as Mr. Bacon spoke he poured out a larger glass of brandy than
usual--he always had brandy on the table at dinner time--and drank
it off. This soon took away the keen edge of suffering from his
feelings, and he was able to affect a measure of cheerfulness. But
he did not deceive the eyes of Mrs. Bacon and Mary.

"I wonder what ails father!" said Mary, as soon as she was alone
with her mother.

"I don't know," answered Mrs. Bacon, thoughtfully, "he seems
troubled about something."

"I saw that Mr. Dyer, who keeps tavern over in Brookville, talking
with father at the wood-pile this morning."

"You did!" Mrs. Bacon spoke with a new manifestation of interest.

"Yes; and I thought, as I looked at him out of the window, that he
appeared to be angry about something."

Mrs. Bacon did not reply to this remark. Soon after, on meeting her
husband, she said to him,

"What did Mr. Dyer want this morning?"

"Something that he will not get," replied Mr. Bacon.

"The money he loaned you?"

"Yes."

"It's impossible to pay it back now, in the dead of winter," said
Mrs. Bacon, in a troubled tone of voice, "he ought to know that."

"And he does know it."

"What did you tell him?"

"That to lift the mortgage now was out of the question."

"Won't he be troublesome? You remember how he acted towards poor old
Mr. Peabody."

"I know he's a hard-hearted, selfish man. I don't believe that there
is a spark of humanity about him. But he'll scarcely go to
extremities with me. I don't fear that."

"Did he threaten?"

"Yes. But I hardly think that he was in earnest."

How far this last remark of old Mr. Bacon was correct, the following
brief conversation will show. It took place between Dyer and a
miserable pettyfogging lawyer, in Brookville, named Grant.

"I've got a mortgage on old Bacon's farm that I wish entered up,"
said the tavern-keeper, on calling at the lawyer's office.

"Can't he pay it off?" inquired Grant.

"Of course not. He's being running down for the last six or seven
years, and is now on his last legs."

"And so you mean to trip him up before he falls of himself." The
lawyer spoke in an unfeeling tone and with a sinister smile.

"If you please to say so," returned Dyer. "I've wanted that farm of
his for some time past. When I took the mortgage on it my object was
not a simple investment at legal interest; you know that I can do
better with money than six per cent a year."

"I should think you could," responded the lawyer, with a chuckle.

"When I loaned Bacon three hundred dollars, of course I never
expected to get the sum back again. I understood, perfectly well,
that sooner or later the mortgage would have to be entered up."

"And the farm becomes yours for half its real value."

"Exactly."

"Are you not striking to soon?" suggested the lawyer.

"No."

"Some friend may loan him the amount."

Dyer shook his head.

"It's a tight time in Brookville."

"I know."

"And still better for my purpose," said Dyer, in a low, meaning,
voice; "drunkards have few friends; none, in fact, willing to risk
their money on them. Put the screws to Bacon, and his farm will drop
into my hands like a ripe cherry."

"You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard. You never see him staggering
about, nor lounging in bar-rooms."

"Do you remember his farm seven years ago?"

"Perfectly well."

"Look at it now."

"There's a great difference, certainly."

"Isn't there! What's the reason of this?"

"Intemperance, I suppose."

"Drunkenness!" said the tavern-keeper. "That is the right word. He
don't spend much in bar-rooms, but look over his store bill and
you'll find rum a large item."

"Poor Bacon! He's a good sort of a man," remarked the lawyer. "I
can't help feeling sorry for him. He's his own worst enemy."

"I want you to push this matter through in the quickest possible
time," said Dyer, in a sharp, firm voice.

"Very well. It shall be done. I know my business."

"And I know mine," returned the tavern-keeper.

On the next day, Mr. Bacon was formally notified that proceedings
had been instituted for the satisfaction of the mortgage. This was
bringing the threatened evil before his eyes in the most direct
aspect. In considerable alarm and perturbation, he called over to
see Dyer.

"You cannot mean to press this matter on to the utmost extremity,"
said he, on meeting the tavern-keeper, the hard aspect of whose
features gave him little room for hope.

"I certainly mean to get my three hundred dollars," was replied.

"Can you not wait until after next harvest?"

"I have already told you that I want my money now," said Dyer, with
affected anger. "If you can pay me, well; if not, I will get my own
by aid of the Sheriff."

"That is a hard saying, Mr. Dyer," returned the farmer, in a subdued
voice.

"Nevertheless, it is a true one, friend Bacon, true as gospel."

"I haven't the money, nor can I borrow it, Mr. Dyer."

"Your misfortune, not mine. Though I must say, it is a little
strange."

"What is strange?"

"That a man who has lived in this community as long as you have,
can't find a friend willing to loan him three hundred dollars to
save his farm from the Sheriff. There's something wrong."

Yes, there was something wrong, and poor old Mr. Bacon felt it now
more deeply than ever. Another feeble effort at remonstrance was
made, when Mr. Dyer coldly referred him to Grant the lawyer, who had
now entire control of the business. But he did not go to him. He
felt that to do so would be utterly useless.

Regular proceedings were entered upon for the settlement of the
mortgage, and hurried to an issue as speedily as possible. It was
all in vain that Mr. Bacon sought to borrow three hundred dollars,
or to find some person willing to take the mortgage on his farm, and
let him continue to pay the interest. It was a season when few had
money to spare, and those who could have advanced the sum required,
hesitated about investing it where there was little hope of getting
the amount back again except by execution and sale. For, Mr. Bacon,
in consequence of his intemperance, was steadily running behindhand;
and all his neighbours knew it.

The effect of this trouble on the mind of Mr. Bacon was to cause him
to drink harder than before. His cheerful temper gave place to a
silent moodiness, when in partial states of sobriety, which where
now of rare occurrence, and he lost all interest in things around
him. A greater part of his time was spent in wandering restlessly
about his house or farm, but he put his hand to scarcely any work.

Deeply distressed were Mrs. Bacon and Mary. Each of them had called,
at different times on Mr. Dyer, in the hope of moving him by
persuasion to turn from his purpose.

But, only in one way would he agree to an amicable settlement, and
that was, by taking the farm for the mortgage and three hundred
dollars cash; by which means he would come into possession of
property worth from twelve to fifteen hundred dollars. This offer he
repeated to Mary, who was the last to call upon him in the hope of
turning him from his purpose.

"No! Mr. Dyer," said the young girl firmly, even while tears were in
her eyes. "My father will not let the place go at a third of its
real value."

"He over-estimates its worth," replied Dyer, with some impatience,
"and he'll find this out when it comes under the hammer."

"You will not, I am sure you will not, sacrifice my father's little
place,--the home of his children," said Mary, in an appealing voice.

"I shall certainly let things take their course," replied the
tavern-keeper. "Tell your father, from me, that he has nothing to
hope for from any change in my purpose, and that he need make no
more efforts to influence me. I will buy the place, as I said, for
six hundred dollars, its full value, or I will sell it for my
claim."

And saying this, the man left, abruptly, the room in which his
interview with Mary was held, and she, hopeless of making any
impression on his feelings, arose and retired from the house,
taking, with a sad heart, her way homeward. Never before had Mary, a
gentle-hearted, quiet, retiring girl, been forced into such rough
contact with the world at any point. Of this act of intercession for
her father, Mr. Bacon knew nothing. Had she dropped (sic) a a word
of her purpose in his hearing, he would have uttered a positive
interdiction. He loved Mary as the apple of his eye, and she loved
him with a tender, self-devoted affection. To him, she was a choice
and beautiful flower, and even though his mind had become, in a
certain degree, degraded and debased by intemperance, there was in
it a quick instinct of protection when any thing approached his
child.

Slowly and thoughtfully, with her eyes bent upon the ground, did
Mary Bacon pursue her way homeward; and she was not aware of the
approach of footsteps behind her, until a man stood by her side and
pronounced her name.

"Mr. Green!" said she, in momentary surprise, pausing as she looked
up.

Mr. Green was a farmer in easy circumstances, whose elegant and
highly cultivated place was only a short distance from her father's
residence. He was, probably, the richest man in the neighbourhood of
Brookville; though, exceedingly close in all money matters. Mr.
Bacon would have called upon him for aid in his extremity, but for
two reasons. One was, Mr. Green's known indisposition to lend money,
and the other was the fact that he had several times talked to him
about his bad drinking habits; at which liberty he had taken
offence, and retorted rather sharply for one of his mild temper.

The colour mounted quickly to Mary's face, as she paused and lifted
her eyes to the countenance of Mr. Green. The fact was, she had been
thinking about him, and, just at the moment he came to her side, she
had fully made up her mind to call upon him before going home.

"Well Mary," said he, kindly, and he took her hand.

Mary's lips quivered, but she could not utter a word.

Mr. Green moved on, still holding her hand, and she moved by his
side.

"I'm sorry to hear," said Mr. Green, "that your father is in
trouble. I learned it only an hour ago."

"That is just what I was coming to see you about," replied Mary,
with a boldness of speech that surprised even herself.

"Indeed! Then _you_ were coming to see me," said Mr. Green, in a
voice that was rather encouraging than otherwise.

"Yes, sir. But father knows nothing of my purpose."

"Oh! Well, Mary, what is it you wish to say to me?"

The young girl's bosom was heaving violently. Some moments passed
ere she felt calm enough to proceed. Then she said--

"Mr. Dyer has a mortgage on father's place for three hundred
dollars, and is going to sell it."

"Mr. Dyer is a hard man, and your father should not have placed
himself in his power," remarked Mr. Green.

"Unhappily, he is in his power."

"So it seems. Well, what do you wish me to do in the case?"

"To lend _me_ three hundred dollars," said Mary, promptly. Thus
encouraged to speak, she did not hesitate a moment.

"Lend _you_ three hundred dollars! returned Mr. Green, rather
surprised at the directness of her request. "For what use?"

"To pay off this mortgage, of course," replied Mary.

"But, who will pay me back my money?" inquired Mr. Green.

"I will," said Mary, confidently. "You! Pray where do you expect to
get so much money from?"

"I expect to earn it," was firmly answered.

Mr. Green paused, and turning towards Mary, looked earnestly into
her young face that was lit up with a beautiful enthusiasm.

"Earn it, did you say?"

"Yes, sir, I will earn and pay it back to you, if it takes a
lifetime to do it in."

"How will you earn it, Mary?"

Mary let her eyes fall to the ground, and stood for a moment or two.
Then looking up, she said--

"I will go to Lowell."

"To Lowell?"

"Yes, sir."

"And work in a factory?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Green moved on again, but in silence, and Mary walked with an
anxious heart by his side. For the distance of several hundred yards
they passed along and not a word was spoken.

"To Lowell?" at length dropped from the lips of Mr. Green, in a tone
half interrogative, half in surprise. Mary did not respond, and the
silence continued until they came to a point in the road where their
two ways diverged.

"Have you thought well of this, Mary?" said Mr. Green, as he paused
here, and laid his hand upon a gate that opened into a part of his
farm.

"Why should I think about it, Mr. Green?" replied Mary. "It is no
time to think, but to act. Hundreds of girls go into factories, and
it will be to me no hardship, but a pleasure, if thereby I can help
my father in this great extremity."

"Is he aware of your purpose?"

"Oh, no sir! no!"

"He would never listen to such a thing."

"Not for a moment."

"Then will you be right in doing what he must disapprove?"

"It is done for his sake. Love for him is my prompter, and that will
bear me up even against his displeasure."

"But he may prevent your going, Mary."

"Not if you will do as I wish."

"Speak on."

"Lend me three hundred dollars on my promise to you that I will
immediately go to Lowell, enter a factory, and remain at work until
the whole sum is paid back again from my earnings."

"Well!"

"I will then take the money and pay off the mortgage. This will
release father from his debt to Mr. Dyer, and bring me in debt to
you."

"I see."

"Father is an honest and an honourable man."

"He is, Mary," said Mr. Green. His voice slightly trembled, for he
was touched by the words of the gentle girl.

"He will not be able to pay you the debt in my stead."

"No."

"And, therefore, deeply reluctant as he may be to let me go, he
cannot say nay."

"Walk along with me to my house," said Mr. Green, as he pushed open
the gate at which he stood, "I must think about this a little more."

The result was according to Mary's wishes. Mr. Green was a true
friend of Mr. Bacon's, and he saw, or believed that he saw, in his
daughter's proposition, the means of his reformation. He, therefore,
returned into the village, and going to the office of Grant,
satisfied the mortgage on Mr. Bacon's property, and brought all the
papers relating thereto away and placed them in Mary's hands.

"Now," said he, on doing this, "I want your written promise to pay
me the three hundred dollars in the way proposed. I will draw up the
paper, and you must sign it."

The paper was accordingly drawn up and signed. It stipulated that
Mary was to start for Lowell within three weeks, and that she was to
have two years for the full payment of the debt.

"My brave girl!" said Mr. Green, as he parted with Mary. "No one
will be prouder of you than I, if you accomplish the work to which
you are about devoting yourself. Happy would I be, had I a daughter
with your true heart and noble courage."

Mary's heart was too full to thank him. But her sweet young face was
beaming with gratitude, as she turned away and hurried homeward.

Mr. Bacon was walking uneasily, backwards and forwards in the old
porch, when Mary entered the little garden gate. She advanced
towards him with a bright face, holding out as she did so, a small
package of papers.

"Good news, father!" she exclaimed. "Good news!

"How? What, child?" eagerly asked the old man, his mind becoming
suddenly bewildered.

"The mortgage is paid, and here is the release!" said Mary, still
holding out the package of papers.

"Paid! Paid, Mary! Who paid it?" returned Mr. Bacon, with the air of
a man awaking from a dream.

"I have paid it, father dear!" answered Mary, in a trembling voice;
and she kissed the old man's cheek, and then laid her face down upon
his breast.

"You, Mary?" Where did you get money?"

"I borrowed it," murmured the happy girl.

"Mary! Mary! what does this mean?" said the old man, pushing back
her face and gazing into it earnestly. "Borrowed the money! Why, who
would lend you three hundred dollars? Say, child!"

"I borrowed it of Mr. Green," replied Mary, and as she said this,
she glided past her father and entering into the house, hurried away
to her mother. But ere she had time to inform her of what she had
done, the father joined them, eager for some further explanations.
When, at last, he comprehended the whole matter, he was, for a time
like a man stricken down by a heavy blow.

"Never," said he, in the most solemn manner, "will I consent to
this. Mr. Green must take back his money. Let the farm go! It shall
not be saved at this price."

But he soon comprehended that it was too late to recall the act of
his daughter. The money had already passed into the hands of Dyer,
and the mortgage been cancelled. Still, he was fixed in his purpose
that Mary should not leave home to spend two long years of incessant
toil in a factory, and immediately called on Mr. Green in order to
make with him some different arrangement for the payment of the
loan. But, to his surprise and grief, he found that Mr. Green was
unyielding in his determination to keep Mary to her contract.

"Surely! surely! Mr. Green, "urged the distressed father," you will
not hold my dear child to this pledge, made under circumstances of
so trying a nature? You will not punish--I say _punish_--a gentle
girl like her for loving her father too well."

"If there is any hardship in the case," replied Mr. Green, calmly,
"you are at fault, and not me, Mr. Bacon."

"Why do you say that?" inquired the old man.

"For the necessity which drove your child to this act of
self-sacrifice, you are responsible."

"Oh sir! is this a time to wound me with words like these? Why do
you turn a seeming act of kindness into the sharpest cruelty?"

"I speak to you but the words of truth and soberness, Mr. Bacon.
These, no man should shrink from hearing. Seven years ago, your farm
was the most productive in the neighborhood, and you in easy
circumstances. What has produced the sad change now visible to all
eyes? What has taken from you the ability to manage your affairs as
prosperously as before? What has made it necessary for your child to
leave her father's sheltering roof and bury herself for two long
years in a factory, in order to save you from total ruin? Go home,
Mr. Bacon, and answer these questions to your own heart, and may the
pain you now suffer lead you to act more wisely in the future."

"My daughter shall not go!" exclaimed the old man, passionately.

"I hold her written pledge to repair to Lowell at the expiration of
three weeks, and to repay the loan I made her in two years. Will you
compel her to violate her contract?"

"I will execute another mortgage on my farm and pay you back the
loan."

"Act like a wise man," said Mr. Green. "Let your daughter carry out
her noble purpose, and thus relieve you from embarrassment."

"No, no, Mr. Green! I cannot think of this. Oh, sir! pity me! Do not
force my child away! Do not lay so heavy a burden on one so young.
Think of her as your own daughter, and do to me as you would
yourself wish to be done by."

But Mr. Green was deaf to all these appeals. He was a man of great
firmness of purpose, and not easily turned to the right nor to the
left.

During the next three weeks, Mr. Bacon tried every expedient in his
power, short of a total sacrifice of his little property, to raise
the money, but in vain. Except for a circumstance new in his life,
he would, in his desperation, have accepted Dyer's offer of six
hundred dollars for his farm, and thus prevented Mary's departure
for Lowell--that circumstance was his perfect sobriety. Not since
the day when Mr. Green charged upon him the responsibility of his
child's banishment from her father's house, had he tasted a drop of
strong drink. His mind was therefore clear, and he was restrained by
reason from acts of rashness, by which his condition would be
rendered far worse than it was already.

Bitter indeed were the sufferings of Mr. Bacon, during the quick
passage of the three weeks--at the expiration of which time Mary was
to leave home, in compliance with her contract--and the more bitter,
because his mind was unobscured by drink. At last, the moment of
separation came. It was a clear cold morning towards the latter end
of March, when Mary left, for the last time, her little chamber, and
came down stairs dressed for her journey. Ever, in the presence of
her father and mother, during the brief season of preparation, had
she maintained a cheerful and confident exterior; but, in her heart,
there was a painful shrinking back from the trial upon which she was
about entering. On going by the door of Mary's chamber, a few
minutes before she came down, Mrs. Bacon saw her daughter kneeling
at her bedside, with her face deeply buried among the clothes. Not
till that moment did she fully comprehend the trial through which
her child was passing.

The stage was at the door, and Mary's trunk strapped up in the boot
before she came down. In the porch stood her father and mother, and
her younger brother and sister, waiting her appearance.

"Good bye, father," said the excellent girl, in a cheerful voice, as
she reached out her hand.

Mr. Bacon caught it eagerly, and essayed to speak some tender and
encouraging words. But though his lips moved, there was no sound
upon the air.

"God bless you!" was at length uttered in a sobbing voice. A fervent
kiss was then pressed upon her lips, and the old man turned away and
staggered rather than walked back into the house.

More calmly the mother parted with her child. It was a great trial
for Mrs. Bacon, but she now fully comprehended the great use to flow
from Mary's self-devotion, and, therefore, with her last kiss,
breathed a word of encouragement.

"It is for your father. Let that sustain you to the end." A few
moments more, and the stage rolled away, bearing with it the very
sunlight from the dwelling of Mr. Bacon. Poor old man! Restlessly
did he wander about for days after Mary's departure, unable to apply
himself, except for a little while at a time, to any work; but his
inquietude did not drive him back to the cup he had abandoned. No,
he saw in it too clearly the cause of his present deep distress, to
look upon and feel its allurement. What had banished from her
pleasant home that beloved child, and sent her forth among strangers
to toil from early morning until the going down of the sun? Could he
love the cause of this great evil? No! There was yet enough virtue
in his heart to save him. Love for his child was stronger than his
depraved love of strong drink. A few more ineffectual efforts were
made to turn Mr. Green from his resolution to hold Mary to her
contract, and then the humbled father resigned himself to the
necessity he could not overcome, and with a clearer mind and a newly
awakened purpose, applied himself to the culture of his farm, which,
in a few months, had a more thrifty appearance than it had presented
for years.

In the mean time, Mary had entered one of the mills at Lowell, and
was doing her work there with a brave and cheerful spirit. Some
painful trials, to one like her, attended her arrival in the city
and entrance upon the duties assumed. But daily the trials grew
less, and she toiled on in the fulfilment of her contract with Mr.
Green, happy under the ever present consciousness that she had saved
her father's property, and kept their homestead as the gathering
place of the family. At the end of three months, she came back and
spent a week. How her young heart bounded with joy at the great
change apparent in every thing about the house and farm, but, most
of all, at the change in her father. He was not so light of word and
smilingly cheerful as in former times, but he was sober, perfectly
sober; and she felt that the kiss with which he welcomed her brief
return, was purer than it had ever been.

On the very day Mary came back, she called over to see Mr. Green,
and paid him thirty-seven dollars on account of the loan, for which
he gave her a receipt. Then he had many questions to ask about her
situation at Lowell, and how she bore her separation from home, to
all of which she gave cheerful answers, and, in the end, repeated
her thanks for the opportunity he had given her to be of such great
service to her father.

Mr. Green had a son who, during his term at college, exhibited
talents of so decided a character that his father, after some
deliberation, concluded to place him under the care of an eminent
lawyer in Boston. In this position he had now been for two years,
and was about applying for admission to the bar. As children, Henry
Green and Mary Bacon had been to the same school together, and, as
children, they were much attached to each other. Their intercourse,
as each grew older, was suspended by the absence of Henry at
college, and by other circumstances that removed the two families
from intimate contact, and they had ceased to think of each other
except when some remembrance of the past brought up their images.

After paying Mr. Green the amount of money which she had saved from
her earnings during the first three months of her factory life, Mary
left his house, and was walking along the carriage way leading to
the public road, when she saw a young man enter the gate and
approach her.

Although it was three years since she had met Henry Green, she knew
him at a glance, but he did not recognize her, although struck with
something familiar in her face as he bowed to her in passing.

"Who can that be?" said he to himself, as he walked thoughtfully
along. "I have seen her before. Can that be Mary Bacon? If so, how
much she has improved!"

On meeting his father, the young man asked if he was right in his
conjecture about the young person he had just passed, and was
answered in the affirmative.

"She was only a slender girl when I saw her last. Now, she is a
handsome young woman," said Henry.

"Yes, Mary has grown up rapidly," replied Mr. Green, evincing no
particular interest in the subject of his remark.

"How is her father doing now?" asked Henry.

"Better than he did a short time ago," was replied

"I'm glad to hear that. Does he drink as much as ever?"

"No. He has given up that bad habit."

"Indeed! Then he must be doing better."

"He ran himself down very low," said Mr. Green, "and was about
losing every thing, when Mary, like a brave, right-minded girl,
stepped forward and saved him."

"Mary! How did she do that, father?"

"Dyer had a mortgage of three hundred dollars on his farm, and was
going to sell him out in mid-winter, when nobody who cared to
befriend him had money to spare. On the very day I heard about his
trouble, Mary called on me and asked the loan of a sum sufficient to
lift the mortgage.

"But how could she pay you back that sum?" asked the young man in
surprise.

"I loaned her the amount she asked," replied Mr. Green, "and she has
just paid me the first promised instalment of thirty-seven dollars."

"How did she get the money?"

"She earned it with her own hands."

"Where?"

"In Lowell."

"You surprise me," said Henry. "And so, to save her father from
ruin, she has devoted her young life to toil in a factory?"

"Yes; and the effect of this self-devotion has been all that I hoped
it would be. It has reformed her father. It has saved him in a
double sense."

"Noble girl!" exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm.

"Yes, you may well say that, Henry," replied Mr. Green. "In the
heart of that humble factory girl is a truly noble and womanly
principle, that elevates her, in my estimation, far above any thing
that rank, wealth, or social position alone can possibly give."

"But father," said Henry, "is it right to subject her to so severe a
trial? It will take a long, long time, for her to earn three hundred
dollars. Does not virtue like hers--"

"I know what you would say," interrupted Mr. Green. "True I could
cancel the obligation and derive great pleasure from doing so, but
it is the conclusion of my better judgment, all things considered,
that she be permitted to fill up the entire measure of her contract.
The trial will fully prove her, and bring to view the genuine gold
of her character. Moreover, it is best for her father that she
should seem to be a sufferer through his intemperance. I say seem,
for, really, Mary experiences more pleasure than pain from what she
is doing. The trial is not so great as it appears. Her reward is
with her daily, and it is a rich reward."

Henry asked no further question, but he felt more than a passing
interest in what he had heard. In the course of a week, Mary
returned to Lowell and he went back to Boston.

Three months afterwards, Mary again came home to visit her parents,
and again called upon Mr. Green to pay over to him what she had been
able to save from her earnings. It so happened that Henry Green was
on a visit from Boston, and that he met her, as before, as she was
retiring from the house of his father. This time he spoke to her and
renewed their old acquaintance, even going so far as to walk a
portion of the way home with her. At the end of another three
months, they met again. Brief though this meeting was, it left upon
the mind of each the other's image more strongly impressed than it
had ever been. In the circle where Henry Green moved in Boston, he
met many educated, refined, and elegant young women, some of whom
had attracted him strongly; but, in the humble Mary Bacon, whose
station in life was that of a toiling factory girl, he saw a moral
beauty whose light threw all the allurements presented by these
completely into shadow.

Six months went by. Henry Green had been admitted to the bar, and
was now a practising attorney in Boston. It was in the pleasant
month of June and he had come home to spend a few weeks with his
family. One morning, a day or two after his return, as he sat
conversing with his father, the form of some one darkened the door.

"Ah Mary!" said the elder Mr. Green rising and taking the hand of
Mary Bacon, which he shook warmly. "My son, Henry," he added,
presenting the blushing girl to his son, who, in turn, took her hand
and expressed the pleasure he felt at meeting her. Knowing the
business upon which Mary had called, Henry, not wishing to be
present at its transaction, soon retired. As he did so, Mary drew
out her purse and took therefrom a small roll of bank bills, saying,
as she handed it to Mr. Green,

"I have come to make you another payment."

With a grave, business-like air, Mr. Green took the money and, after
counting it over, went to his secretary and wrote out a receipt.

"Let me see," said he, thoughtfully, as he came back with the
receipt in his hand. "How much does this make? One, two, three,
four, five quarterly payments. One hundred and eighty-seven dollars
and a half. You'll soon be through, Mary. There is nothing like
patience, perseverance, and industry. How is your father this
morning?"

"Very well, sir."

"I think his health has improved of late."

"Very much."

"And so has every thing around him. I was looking at his farm a few
days ago, and never saw crops in a finer condition. And how is your
health, Mary."

"Pretty good," was replied, though not with much heartiness of
manner.

Mr. Green now observed her more closely, and saw that her cheeks
were thinner and paler than at her last visit. He did not remark on
it, however, and, after a few words more of conversation, Mary arose
and withdrew.

It was, perhaps, an hour afterwards, that Henry said to his father,

"Mary Bacon doesn't look as well as when I last saw her."

"So it struck me," returned Mr. Green.

"I'm afraid she has taken upon her more than she has the strength to
accomplish. She is certainly paler and thinner than she was, and is
far from looking as cheerful and happy as when I saw her six months
ago."

Mr. Green did not reply to this, but his countenance assumed a
thoughtful expression.

"Mary is a good daughter," he at length said, as if speaking to
himself.

"There is not one in a thousand like her," replied Henry, with a
warmth of manner that caused Mr. Green to lift his eyes to his son's
face.

"I fully agree with you in that," he answered.

"Then, father," said Henry, "why hold her any longer to her
contract, thus far so honorably fulfilled. The trial has proved her.
You see the pure gold of her character."

"I have long seen it," returned Mr. Green.

"Her father is thoroughly reformed."

"So I have reason to believe."'

"Then act from your own heart's generous impulses, father, and
forgive the balance of the debt."

"Are you certain that she will accept what you ask me to give? Will
her own sense of justice permit her to stop until the whole claim is
satisfied?" asked Mr. Green.

"I cannot answer for that father," returned Henry. "But, let me beg
of you to at least make the generous offer of a release."

Mr. Green went to his secretary, and, taking a small piece of paper
from a drawer, held it up, and said--

"This, Henry, is her acknowledgment of the debt to me. If I write
upon it 'satisfied,' will you take it to her and say, that I hold
the obligation no farther."

"Gladly!" was the instant reply of Henry. "You could not ask me to
do a thing from which I would derive greater pleasure."

Mr. Green took up his pen and wrote across the face of the paper, in
large letters, "satisfied," and then, handing it to his son, said--

"Take it to her, Henry, and say to her, that if I had given way to
my feelings, I would have done this a year ago. And now, let me
speak a word for your ear. Never again, in this life, may a young
woman cross your path, whose character is so deeply grounded in
virtue, who is so pure, so unselfish, so devoted in her love, so
strong in her good purposes. Her position is humble, but, in a
life-companion, we want personal excellences, not extraneous social
adjuncts. You have my full consent to win, if you can, this sweet
flower, blooming by the way-side. A proud day will it be for me,
when I can call her my daughter. I have long loved her as such."

More welcome words than these Mr. Green could not have spoken to his
son. They were like a response to his own feelings. He did not,
however, make any answer, but took the contract in silence and
quickly left the room.

The reader can easily anticipate what followed. Mary did not go back
to Lowell. A year afterwards she was introduced to a select circle
of friends in Boston as the wife of Henry Green, and she is now the
warmly esteemed friend and companion of some of the most
intelligent, refined, right-thinking, and right-feeling people in
that city. Her husband has seen no reason to repent of his choice.

As for old Mr. Bacon, his farm has continued to improve in
appearance and value ever since his daughter paid off the mortgage;
and as he, once for all, banished liquor from his house, he is in no
danger of having his little property burdened with a new
encumbrance. His cheerfulness has returned, and he bears as of old,
the reputation of being the best tempered, best hearted man in the
neighborhood.






TWO PICTURES.





Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, the oldest but six years
of age, came in from school one evening, later than usual by half an
hour. Both their eyes were red with weeping, and their cheeks wet
with tears. Their father, Mr. Warren, who had come home from his
business earlier than usual, had been waiting some time for their
return, and wondering why they stayed so late. They were his only
children, and he loved them most tenderly. They had, a few weeks
before, been entered at a school kept by a lady in the
neighborhood--not so much for what they would learn, as to give
occupation to their active minds.

"Why, Anna! Willy!" exclaimed Mr. Warren, as the children came in,
"what's the matter? Why have you stayed so late?"

Anna lifted her tearful eyes to her father's face, and her lip
curled and quivered. But she could not answer his question.

Mr. Warren took the grieving child in his arms, and as he drew her
to his bosom, said to Willy, who was the oldest--

"What has made you so late, dear?"

"Miss Roberts kept us in," sobbed Willy.

"Kept you in!" returned Mr. Warren, in surprise. "How came that?"

"Because we laughed," answered the child, still sobbing and weeping.

"What made you laugh?"

"One of the boys made funny faces."

"And did you laugh too, dear?" asked the father of Anna.

"Yes, papa. But I couldn't help it. And Miss Roberts scolded so, and
said she was going to whip us."

"And was that all you did?"

"Yes, indeed, papa," said Willy.

"I'll see Miss Roberts about it," fell angrily from the lips of Mr.
Warren. "It's the last time you appear in her school. A cruel-minded
woman!"

And then the father soothed his grieving little ones with
affectionate words and caresses.

"Dear little angels!" said Mr. Warren to his wife, shortly
afterwards, "that any one could have the heart to punish them for a
sudden outburst of joyous feelings! And Anna in particular, a mere
babe as she is, I can't get over it. To think of her being kept in
for a long half hour, under punishment, after all the other children
had gone home. It was cruel. Miss Roberts shall hear from me on the
subject."

"I don't know, dear, that I would say any thing about it," remarked
the mother, who was less excited about the matter, "I don't think
she meant to be severe. She, doubtless, forgot that they were so
very young."

"She'd no business to forget it. I've no idea of my children being
used after this fashion. The boy that made them laugh should have
been kept in, if any punishment had to be inflicted. But it's the
way with cruel-minded people. The weakest are always chosen as
objects of their dislike."

"I am sure you take this little matter too much to heart," urged the
mother. "Miss Roberts must have order in her school, and even the
youngest must conform to this order. I do not think the punishment
so severe. She had to do something to make them remember their
fault, and restrain their feelings in future; and she could hardly
have done less. It is not too young for them to learn obedience in
any position where they are introduced."

But the over fond and tender father could see no reason for the
punishment his little ones had received; and would not consent to
let them go again to the school of Miss Roberts. To him they were
earth's most precious things. They were tender flowers; and he was
troubled if ever the winds blew roughly upon them.

Seven years have passed. Let us visit the home of Mr. Warren and
look at him among his children. No; we will not enter this pleasant
house--he moved away long ago. Can this be the home of Mr. Warren!
Yes. Small, poor, and comfortless as it is! Ah! there have been sad
changes.

Let us enter. Can that be Warren? That wretched looking
creature--with swollen, disfigured face and soiled garments--who
sits, half stupid, near the window? A little flaxen-haired child is
playing on the floor. It is not Anna. No; seven years have changed
her from the fairylike little creature she was when her father
became outraged at her punishment in Miss Roberts' school! Poor
Anna! That was light as the thistle down to what she has since
received from the hands of her father. The child on the floor is
beautiful, even in her tattered clothes. She has been playing for
some time. Now her father calls to her in a rough, grumbling voice.

"Kate! You, Kate, I say!"

Little Kate, not five years old, leaves her play and goes up to
where her parent is sitting.

"Go and get me a drink of water," said he in a harsh tone of
authority.

Kate takes a tin cup from a table and goes to the hydrant in the
yard. So pleased is she in seeing the water run, that she forgets
her errand. Three or four times she fills the cup, and then pours
forth its contents, dipping her tiny feet in the stream that is
made. In the midst of her sport, she hears an angry call, and
remembering the errand upon which she has been sent, hurriedly fills
her cup again and bears it to her father. She is frightened as she
comes in and sees his face; this confuses her; her foot catches in
something as she approaches, and she falls over, spilling the cup of
water on his clothes. Angrily he catches her up, and, cruel in his
passion, strikes her three or four heavy blows.

"Now take that cup and get me some water!" he cries, in a loud
voice, "and if you are not here with it in a minute, I'll beat the
life half out of you! I'll teach you to mind when your spoken to, I
will! There! Off with you!"

Little Kate, smarting from pain, and trembling with fear, lifts the
cup and hurries away to perform her errand. She drops it twice from
her unsteady hands ere she is able to convey it, filled with water,
to her parent, who takes it with such a threatening look from his
eyes, that the child shrinks away from him, and goes from the room
in fear.

An hour passes, and the light of day begins to fade.

Evening comes slowly on, and at length the darkness closes in. But
twice since morning has Warren been from the house, and then it was
to get something to drink. The door at length opens quietly, and a,
little girl enters. Her face is thin and drooping, and wears a look
of patient suffering.

"You're late, Anna," says the mother, kindly.

"Yes, ma'am. We had to stay later for our money. Mr. Davis was away
from the store, and I was afraid I would have to come home without
it. Here it is."

Mrs. Warren took the money.

"Only a dollar!" There was disappointment in her tones as she said
this.

"Yes, ma'am, that is all," replied Anna, in a troubled voice. "I
spoiled some work, and Mr. Davis said I should pay for it, and so he
took half a dollar from my wages."

"Spoiled your work!" spoke up the father, who had been listening.
"That's more of your abominable carelessness!"

"Indeed, father; I couldn't help it," said Anna, "one of the
girls--"

"Hush up, will you! I want none of your lying excuses. I know you!
It was done on purpose, I have not the least doubt."

Anna caught her breath, like one suddenly deprived of air. Tears
rushed to her eyes and commenced falling over her cheeks, while her
bosom rose and fell convulsively.

"Come, now! None of that!" said the cruel father sternly. "Stop your
crying instantly, or I will give you something to cry for! A pretty
state of things, indeed, when every word must be answered by a fit
of crying!"

The poor child choked down her feelings as best she could, turning
as she did so from her father; that he might not see the still
remaining traces of her grief which it was impossible at once to
hide.

Not a single dollar had the idle, drunken father earned during the
week, that he had not expended in self-indulgence; and yet, in his
brutality, he could roughly chide this little girl, yet too young
for the taskmaster, because she had lost half a dollar of her week's
earnings through an accident, the very nature of which he would not
hear explained. So grieved was the poor child at this unkindness,
that when supper was on the table she shrunk away from the room.

"Come, Anna, to your supper," called the mother.

"I don't wish any thing to eat," replied the child, in a faint
voice.

"Oh, yes; come and get something."

"Let her alone!" growls the father. "I never humor sulky children.
She doesn't deserve any supper."

The mother sighs. While the husband eats greedily, consuming,
himself, more than half that is on the table, she takes but a few
mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty.

After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has already been
bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes home. He has a tale of
suffering to tell. For some fault his master has beaten him until
the large purple welts lie in meshes across his back from his
shoulders to his hips.

"How comes all this?" asks Mr. Warren. There is not the smallest
sign of sympathy in his voice.

Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly. He was something to
blame, but his fault needed not the correction of stripes even
lightly applied.

"Served you right!" said the father, when the story was ended. "No
business to have acted so. Do as you are told, and mind your work,
and you'll escape flogging. Otherwise, I don't care how often you
get it. You've been spoiled at home, and it'll do you good to toe
the mark. Did your master know you were coming home to-night?"

"No, sir," replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a choking
voice.

"Then what did you come for? To get pitied? Do right and you'll need
no pity."

"Oh, James, don't speak so to the child!" said Mrs. Warren, unable
to keep silence.

This was answered by an angry look.

"You must go back to your master, boy," said the father, after a
pause. "When you wish to come home, ask his consent."

"He doesn't object to my coming home," said Willy, his voice still
quivering.

"Go back, I tell you! Take your hat, there, and go back. Don't come
here any more with your tales!"

The boy glanced towards his mother, and read pity and sympathy in
her countenance, but she did not countermand the order; for she knew
that if she did so, a scene of violence would follow.

"Ask to come home in the morning," said she to her boy, as she held
his hand tightly in hers at the door. He gave her a look of tender
thankfulness, and then went forth into the darkness, feeling so sad
and wretched that he could not repress his tears.

Seven years. And was only this time required to effect such a
change! Ah! rum is a demon! How quickly does it transform the tender
husband and parent into a cruel beast! Look upon these two pictures,
ye who tarry long at the wine! Look at them, but do not say they are
overdrawn! They have in them only the sober hues and subdued colors
of truth.






BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.





THE cholera had made its appearance in New York, and many deaths
were occurring daily. Among those who weakly permitted themselves to
feel an alarm amounting almost to terror, was a Mr. Hobart, who,
from the moment the disease manifested itself, became infested with
the idea that he would be one of its victims.

"Doctor," said he to his family physician, meeting him one day in
the street, "is there nothing which a man can take that will act as
a preventive to cholera?"

"I'll tell you what I do," replied the doctor.

"Well, what is it?"

"I take a glass of good brandy twice a day. One in the morning and
the other after dinner."

"Indeed! And do you think brandy useful in preventing the disease?"

"I think it a protection," said the doctor. "It keeps the system
slightly stimulated; and is, besides, a good astringent."

"A very simple agent," remarked Mr. Hobart.

"Yes, the most simple that we can adopt. And what is better, the use
of it leaves no after bad consequences, as is too often the case
with medicines, which act upon the system as poisons."

"Sometimes very bad consequences arise from the use of brandy,"
remarked Mr. Hobart. "I have seen them in my time."

"Drunkenness, you mean."

"Yes."

"People who are likely to make beasts of themselves had better let
it alone," said the doctor, contemptuously. "If they should take the
cholera and die, it will be no great loss to the world."

"And you really think a little good brandy, taken daily, fortifies
the system against the cholera?"

"Seriously I do," replied the doctor. "I have adopted this course
from the first, and have not been troubled with a symptom of the
disease."

"I feel very nervous on the subject. From the first I have been
impressed with the idea that I would get the disease and die."

"That is a weakness, Mr. Hobart."

"I know it is, still I cannot help it. And you would advise me to
take a little good brandy?"

"Yes, every day."

"I am a Son of Temperance."

"No matter; you can take it as medicine under my prescription. I
know a dozen Sons of Temperance who have used brandy every day since
the disease appeared in New York. It will be no violation of your
contract. Life is of too much value to be put in jeopardy on a mere
idea."

"I agree with you there. I'd drink any thing if I thought it would
give me an immunity against this dreadful disease."

"You'll be safer with the brandy than without it."

"Very well. If you think so, I will use it."

On parting with the doctor, Mr. Hobart went to a liquor store and
ordered half a gallon of brandy sent home. He did not feel
altogether right in doing so, for it must be understood, that, in
years gone by, Mr. Hobart had fallen into the evil habit of
intemperance, which clung to him until he run through a handsome
estate and beggared his family. In this low condition he was found
by the Sons of Temperance, who induced him to abandon a course whose
end was death and destruction, and to come into their Order. From
that time all was changed. Sobriety and industry were returned to
him in many of the good things of this world which he had lost, and
he was still in the upward movement at the time when the fatal
pestilence appeared.

On going home at dinner time, Hobart's wife said to him, with a
serious face--

"A demijohn, with some kind of liquor in it, was sent here to-day."

"Oh, yes," he replied, it is brandy that Doctor L--ordered me to
take as a cholera preventive."

"Brandy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hobart, with an expression of painful
surprise in her voice and on her countenance, that rather annoyed
her husband.

"Yes. He says that he takes it every day as a preventive, and
directed me to do the same."

"I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Indeed I wouldn't," said Mrs.
Hobart, earnestly.

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You will violate your contract with the Sons of Temperance."

"Not at all. Brandy may be used as a medicine under the prescription
of a physician. I wouldn't have thought of touching it had not
Doctor L--ordered me to do so."

"You are not sick, Edward."

"But there is death in the very air I breathe. At any moment I am
liable to be struck down by an arrow sent from an unseen bow, unless
a shield be interposed. Such a shield has been placed in my hands.
Shall I not use it?"

Mrs. Hobart knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that
remonstrance and argument would be of no avail, now that his mind
was m de up to use the brandy; and yet so distressed did she feel,
that she couldn't help saying, with tears in her eyes--

"Eaward,(sic) let me beg of you not to touch it."

"Would you rather see me in my coffin?" replied Mr. Hobart, with
some bitterness. "Death may seem a light thing to you, but it is not
so to me."

"You are not sick," still urged the wife.

"But I am liable, as I said just now, to take the disease every
moment."

"You will be more liable, with your system stimulated and disturbed
by brandy. Let well enough alone. Be thankful for the health you
have, and do not invite disease."

"The doctor ought to know. He understands the matter better than you
or I. He recommends brandy as a preventive. He takes it himself."

"Because he likes it, no doubt."

"It is silly for you to talk in that way," replied the husband, with
much impatience. "He isn't rendered more liable to the disease by
taking a little pure brandy, for he says that it keeps him perfectly
well."

"A glass of brandy every day may have been his usual custom," urged
Mrs. Hobart. "In that case, in its continuance, no change was
produced. But your system has been untouched by the fiery liquid for
nearly five years, and its sudden introduction must create
disturbance. It is reasonable."

"The doctor ought to know best," was replied to this. "He has
prescribed it, and I must take it. Life is too serious a matter to
be trifled with. 'An ounce of preventive is worth a pound of cure,'
you know."

"I am in equal danger with yourself," said Mrs. Hobart; "and so are
the children."

"Undoubtedly. And I wish you all to use a little brandy."

"Not a drop of the poison shall pass either my lips or those of the
children," replied Mrs. Hobart, with emphasis.

"As you please," said the husband, coldly, and turned away.

"Edward!" Mrs. Hobart laid her hand upon his arm. "Edward! Let me
beg of you not to follow this advice."

"Why will you act so foolishly? Has not the doctor ordered the
brandy? I look to him as the earthly agent for the preservation of
my health and the saving of my life. If I do not regard his advice,
in what am I to trust?"

"Remember the past, Edward," said the wife, solemnly.

"I do remember it. But I fear no danger."

Mrs. Hobart turned away sadly, and went up to her chamber to give
vent to her feelings alone in tears. Firm to his purpose of using
the preventive recommended by the doctor, Mr. Hobart, after dinner,
took a draught of brandy and water. Nearly five years, as his wife
remarked, had elapsed since a drop of the burning fluid had passed
his lips. The taste was not particularly agreeable. Indeed, his
stomach rather revolted as the flavor reached his palate.

"It's vile stuff at best," he remarked to himself, making a wry
face. "Fit only for medicine. Not much danger of my ever loving it
again. I wish Anna was not so foolish. A flattering opinion she has
of her husband!"

The sober countenance of his wife troubled Mr. Hobart, as he left
home for his place of business earlier by half an hour than usual.
Neither in mind nor body were his sensations as pleasant as on the
day before. The brandy did something more than produce an agreeable
warmth in his stomach. A burning sensation soon followed its
introduction, accompanied by a feeling of uneasiness that he did not
like. In the course of half an hour, this unnatural heat was felt in
every part of his body, but more particularly about his head and
face; and it was accompanied by a certain confusion of mind that
prevented his usual close application to business during the
afternoon.

Towards evening, these disagreeable consequences of the glass of
cholera-preventive he had taken in a great measure subsided; but
there followed a dryness of the palate, and a desire for some drink
more pleasant to the taste than water. In his store was a large
pitcher of ice-water; but, though thirsty, he felt no inclination to
taste the pure beverage; but, instead, went out and obtained a glass
of soda water. This only made the matter worse. The half gill of
syrup with which the water was sweetened, created, in a little
while, a more uneasy feeling. Still, there was no inclination for
the water that stood just at hand, and which he had daily found so
refreshing during the hot weather. In fact, when he thought of it,
it was with a sense of repulsion.

In this state, the idea of a cool glass of brandy punch, or a mint
julep, came up in his mind, and he felt the draught, in imagination,
at his lips.

"A little brandy twice a day; so the doctor said." This was uttered
half aloud.

Just at the moment a slight pain crossed his stomach. It was the
first sensation of the kind he had experienced since the epidemic he
so much dreaded had appeared in the city; and it caused a slight
shudder to go through his frame, for he was nervous in his fear of
cholera.

"A little mint with the brandy would make it better still. I don't
like this feeling. I'll try a glass of brandy and mint." Thus spoke
Mr. Hobart to himself.

Putting on his hat, he went forth for the purpose of getting some
brandy and mint. As he stepped into the street the pain was felt
again, and more distinctly. The effect was to cause a slight
perspiration to manifest itself on the face and forehead of Mr.
Hobart, and to make, in his mind, the necessity for the brandy and
mint more imperative. He did not just like to be seen going boldly
in at the door of a refectory or drinking-house in a public place,
for he was a Son of Temperance, and any one who knew this and
happened to see him going in, could not, at the same time, know that
he was acting under his physician's advice. So he went off several
blocks from the neighborhood in which his store was located, and
after winding his way along a narrow, unfrequented street, came to
the back entrance of a tavern, where he went in, as he desired,
unobserved.

Years before, Hobart had often stood at the bar where he now found
himself. Old, familiar objects and associations brought back old
feelings, and he was affected by an inward glow of pleasure.

"What! you here?" said a man who stood at the bar, with a glass in
his hand. He was also a member of the Order.

"And you here!" replied Mr. Hobart.

"It isn't for the love of it, I can assure you," remarked the man,
as he looked meaningly at his glass. "These are not ordinary times."

"You are right there," said Hobart. "A little brandy sustains and
fortifies the system. That all admit."

"My physician has ordered it for me. He takes a glass or two every
day himself, and tells me that, so far, he has not been troubled
with the first symptom."

"Indeed. That is testimony to the point."

"So I think."

"Who is your physician?"

"Dr. L--."

"He stands high. I would at any time trust my life in his hands."

"I am willing to do so." Then turning to the bar-keeper, Mr. Hobart
said--"I'll take a glass of brandy and water, and you may add some
mint."

"Perhaps you'll have a mint julep?" suggested the barkeeper, winking
aside to a man who stood near, listening to what passed between the
two members of the Order.

"Yes--I don't care--yes. Make it a julep," returned Hobart. "It's
the brandy and mint I want. I've had a disagreeable sensation," he
added, speaking to the friend he had met, and drawing his hand
across his stomach as he spoke, "that I don't altogether like. Here
it is again!"

"A little brandy will help it."

"I hope so."

When the mint julep was ready, Hobart took it in his hand and
retired to a table in the corner of the room, and the man he had met
went with him.

"Ain't you afraid to tamper with liquor?" asked this person, a
little seriously, as he observed the relish with which Hobart sipped
the brandy. Some thoughts had occurred to himself that were not very
pleasant.

"Oh, no. Not in the least," replied Mr. Hobart. "I only take it as a
medicine, under my physician's order; and I can assure you that the
taste is quite as disagreeable as rhubarb would be. I believe the
old fondness has altogether died out."

"I'm afraid it never dies out," said the man, whose eyes told him
plainly enough, that it had not died out in the case of the
individual before him, notwithstanding his averment on the subject.

"I feel much better now," said Mr. Hobart, after he had nearly
exhausted his glass. "I had such a cold sensation in my stomach,
accompanied by a very disagreeable pain. But both are now gone. This
brandy and mint have acted like a charm. Dr. L--understands the
matter clearly. It is fortunate that I saw him this morning. I would
not have dared to touch brandy, unless under medical advice; and,
but for the timely use of it, I might have been dangerously ill with
this fatal epidemic."

After sitting a little while longer, the two men retired through the
back entrance to escape observation.

"How quickly these temperance men seize hold of any excuse to get a
glass of brandy," said the bar-keeper to a customer, as soon as
Hobart had retired, laughing in a half sneer as he spoke. "They come
creeping in through our back way, and all of them have a pain! Ha!
ha!"

"I've taken a glass of brandy and water, every day for the last five
years," replied the man to whom this was addressed, "and I continue
it now. But I can tell you what, if I'd been an abstainer, you
wouldn't catch me pouring it into my stomach now. Not I! All who do
so are more liable to the disease."

"So I think," said the bar-tender. "But every one to his liking. It
puts money in our till. We've done a better business since the
cholera broke out, than we've done these three years. If it were to
continue for a twelve month we would make a fortune."

This was concluded with a coarse laugh, and then he went to attend
to a new customer for drink.

For all Mr. Hobart had expressed himself so warmly in favor of
brandy, and had avowed his freedom from the old appetite, he did not
feel altogether right about the matter. There was a certain pressure
upon his feelings that he could not well throw off. When he went
home in the evening, he perceived a shadow on the brow of his wife;
and the expression of her eyes, when she looked at him, annoyed and
troubled him.

After supper, the uneasiness he had felt during the afternoon,
returned, and worried his mind considerably. The fact was, the
brandy had already disturbed the well balanced action of the lower
viscera. The mucous membrane of the whole (sic) alementry canal had
been stimulated beyond health, and its secretions were increased and
slightly vitiated. This was the cause of the uneasiness he felt, and
the slight pains which had alarmed him. By ten o'clock his feelings
had become so disagreeable, that he felt constrained to meet them
with another "mouthful," of brandy. Thus, in less than ten hours,
Mr. Hobart had wronged his stomach by pouring into it three glasses
of brandy; entirely disturbing its healthy action.

The morning found Mr. Hobart far from feeling well. His skin was dry
and feverish and his mouth parched. There was an uneasy sensation of
pain in his head. Immediately upon rising he took a strong glass of
brandy. That, to use his own words, "brought him up," and made him
feel "a hundred per cent better." During the forenoon, however, a
slight diarrhoea manifested itself. A thrill of alarm was the
consequence.

"I must check this!" said he, anxiously. And, in order to do so,
another and stronger glass of brandy was taken.

In the afternoon, the diarrhoea appeared again. It was still slight,
and unaccompanied by pain. But, it was a symptom not to be
disregarded. So brandy was applied as before. In the evening, it
showed itself again.

"I wish you would give me a little of that brandy," said he to his
wife. "I'm afraid of this, it must be stopped."

"Hadn't you better see the doctor?"

"I don't think it necessary. The brandy will answer every purpose."

"I have no faith in brandy," said Mrs. Hobart. Poor woman! she had
cause for her want of faith!

"I have then," replied her husband. "It's the doctor's
recommendation. And he ought to know."

"You were perfectly well before you commenced acting on his advice."

"I was well, apparently. But, it is plain that the seeds of disease
were in me. There is no telling how much worse I would have been."

"Nor how much better. For my part I charge it all on the brandy."

"That's a silly prejudice," said Mr. Hobart, with a good deal of
impatience. "Every one knows that brandy is a remedy in diseases of
this kind; not a producing cause."

Mrs. Hobart was silent. But she did not get the brandy. That was
more than she could do. So her husband got it himself. But, in order
to make the medicinal purpose more apparent, he poured the liquor
into a deep plate, added some sugar, and set it on fire.

"You will not object to burnt brandy at least," said he. "That you
know to be good."

Mrs. Hobart did not reply. She felt that it would be useless. Only a
disturbance of harmony could arise, and that would produce greater
unhappiness. The brandy, after having parted with its more volatile
qualities, was introduced into Mr. Hobart's stomach, and fretted
that delicate organ for more than an hour.

"I thought the burnt brandy would be effective," said Mr. Hobart on
the next morning. "And it has proved so." In order not to lose this
good effect, he fortified himself before going out with some of the
same article, unburnt. But, alas! By ten o'clock the diarrhoea showed
itself again, and in a more decided form.

Oh dear!" said he in increased alarm. "This won't do. I must see the
doctor." And off he started for Doctor L--'s office. But, on the
way he could not resist the temptation to stop at a tavern for
another glass of brandy, notwithstanding he began to entertain a
suspicion as to the true cause of the disturbance. The doctor
happened to be in. "I think I'd better have a little medicine,
doctor," said he, on seeing his medical adviser. A stitch in time,
you know."

"Ain't you well?"

"No," and Mr. Hobart gave his symptoms.

"An opium pill will do all that is required," said the doctor.

"Shall I continue the brandy?" asked the patient.

"Have you taken brandy every day since I saw you?" inquired the
doctor.

"Yes; twice, and sometimes three times."

"Ah!" The doctor looked thoughtful.

"Shall I continue to do so?"

"Perhaps you had better omit it for the present. You're not in the
habit of drinking any thing?"

"No. I haven't tasted brandy before for five years."

"Indeed! Yes, now, I remember you said so. You'd better omit it
until we see the effect of the opium. Sudden changes are not always
good in times like these."

"I don't think the brandy has hurt me," said Mr. Hobart.

"Perhaps not. Still, as a matter of prudence, I would avoid it. Let
the opium have a full chance, and all will be right again."

An opium pill was swallowed, and Mr. Hobart went back to his place
of business. It had the intended effect. That is, it cured one
disease by producing another--suspended action took the place of
over-action. He was, therefore, far from being in a state of health,
or free from danger in a cholera atmosphere. There was one part of
the doctor's order that Mr. Hobart did not comply with. The free use
of brandy for a few days rekindled the old appetite, and made his
desire for liquor so intense, that he had not, or, if he possessed
it, did not exercise the power of resistance.

Sad beyond expression was the heart of Mrs. Hobart, when evening
came, and her husband returned home so much under the influence of
drink as to show it plainly. She said nothing to him, then, for that
she knew would be of no avail. But next morning, as he was rising,
she said to him earnestly and almost tearfully.

"Edward, let me beg of you to reflect before you go further in the
way you have entered. You may not be aware of it, but last night you
showed so plainly that you had been drinking that I was distressed
beyond measure. You know as well as I do, where this will end, if
continued. Stop, then, at once, while you have the power to stop. As
to preventing disease, it is plain that the use of brandy has not
done so in your case; but, rather, acted as a predisposing cause.
You were perfectly well before you touched it; you have not been
well since. Look at this fact, and, as a wise man, regard its
indications."

Truth was so strong in the words of his wife, that Mr. Hobart did
not attempt to gainsay them.

"I believe you are right," he replied with a good deal of depression
apparent in his manner. "I wish the doctor had kept his brandy
advice to himself. It has done me no good."

"It has done you harm," said his wife.

"Perhaps it has. Ah, me! I wish the cholera would subside."

"I think your fear is too great," returned Mrs. Hobart. "Go on in
your usual way; keep your mind calm; be as careful in regard to
diet, and you need fear no danger."

"I wish I'd let the brandy alone!" sighed Mr. Hobart, who felt as he
spoke, the desire for another draught.

"So do I. Doctor L--must have been mad when he advised it."

"So I now think. I heard yesterday of two or three members of our
Order who have been sick, and every one of them used a little brandy
as a preventive."

"It is bad--bad. Common sense teaches this. No great change of habit
is good in a tainted atmosphere. But you see this now, happily, and
all will yet be well I trust."

"Yes; I hope so. I shall touch no more of this brandy preventive. To
that my mind is fully made up."

Mrs. Hobart felt hopeful when she parted with her husband. But she
knew nothing of the real conflict going on in his mind between
reason and awakened appetite--else had she trembled and grown faint
in spirit. This conflict went on for some hours, when, alas!
appetite conquered.

At dinner time Mrs. Hobart saw at a glance how it was. The whole
manner of her husband had changed. His state of depression was gone,
and he exhibited an unnatural exhilaration of spirits. She needed
not the sickening odor of his breath to tell the fatal secret that
he had been unable to control himself.

It was worse at night. He came home so much beside himself that he
could with difficulty walk erectly. Half conscious of his condition,
he did not attempt to join the family, but went up stairs and groped
his way to bed. Mrs. Hobart did not follow him to his chamber.
Heartsick, she retired to another room, and there wept bitterly for
more than an hour. She was hopeless. Up from the melancholy past
arose images of degradation and suffering too dreadful to
contemplate. She felt that she had not strength to suffer again as
she had suffered through many, many years. From this state she was
aroused by groans from the room where her husband lay. Alarmed by
the sounds, she instantly went to him.

"What is the matter?" she asked, anxiously.

"Oh! oh! I am in so much pain!" was groaned half inarticulately.

"In pain, where?"

"Oh! oh!" was repeated, in a tone of suffering; and then he
commenced vomiting.

Mrs. Hobart placed her hand upon his forehead and found it cold and
clammy. Other and more painful symptoms followed. Before the doctor,
who was immediately summoned, arrived, his whole system had become
prostrate, and was fast sinking into a state of collapse. It was a
decided case of cholera.

"Has he been eating any thing improper?" asked Doctor L--, after
administering such remedies, and ordering such treatment as he
deemed the case required.

"Has he eaten no green fruit?"

"None."

"Nothing, to my knowledge, replied Mrs. Hobart. "We have been very
careful in regard to food."

"Nor unripe vegetables?"

Mrs. Hobart shook her head.

"Nor fish?"

"Nothing of the kind."

"That is strange. He was well a few days ago."

"Yes, perfectly, until he began to take a little brandy every day as
a preventive."

"Ah!" The doctor looked thoughtful. "But it couldn't have been that.
I take a little pure brandy every day, and find it good. I recommend
it to all my patients."

Mrs. Hobart sighed. Then she asked--"Do you think him dangerous?"

"I hope not. The attack is sudden and severe. But much worse cases
recover. I will call round again before bed time."

The doctor went away feeling far from comfortable. Only a few hours
before he, had left a man sick with cholera beyond recovery, who
had, to his certain knowledge, adopted the
brandy-drinking-preventive-system but a week before; and that at his
recommendation. And here was another case.

At eleven o'clock Dr. L--called to see Mr. Hobart again, and found
him rapidly sinking. Not a single symptom had been reached by his
treatment. The poor man was in great pain. Every muscle in his body
seemed affected by cramps and spasms. His mind, however, was
perfectly clear. As the doctor sat feeling his pulse, Hobart said to
him--

"Doctor L--, it is too late!"

"Oh, no. It is never too late," replied the doctor. "Don't think of
death; think of life, and that will help to sustain you. You are
not, by any means, at the last point. Hundreds, worse than you now
are, come safely through. I don't intend to let you slip through my
hands."

"Doctor," said the sick man, speaking in a solemn voice, "I feel
that I am beyond the reach of medicine. I shall die. What I now say
I do not mean as a reproach. I speak it only as a truth right for
you to know. Do you see my poor wife?"

The doctor turned his eyes upon Mrs. Hobart, who stood weeping by
the bedside.

"When she is left a widow, and my children orphans," continued the
patient, "remember that you have made them such!"

"Me! Why do you say that, Mr. Hobart?" The doctor looked startled.

"Because it is the truth. I was a well man, when you, as my medical
adviser, recommended me to drink brandy as a protection against
disease. I was in fear of the infection, and followed your
prescription. From the moment I took the first draught my body lost
its healthy equilibrium; and not only my body, but my mind. I was a
reformed man, and the taste inflamed the old appetite. From that
time until now I have not been really sober."

The doctor was distressed and confounded by this declaration. He had
feared that such was the case; but now it was charged unequivocally.

"I am pained at all this," he replied, "In sinning I sinned
ignorantly."

But, ere he could finish his reply, the sick man became suddenly
worse, and sunk into a state of insensibility.

"If it be in human power to save his life," murmured the doctor--"I
will save it."

Through the whole night he remained at the bed-side, giving, with
his own hands, all the remedies, and applying every curative means
within reach. But, when the day broke, there was little, if any
change for the better. He then went home, but returned in a couple
of hours.

"How is your husband?" he asked of the pale-faced wife as he
entered. She did not reply, and they went up to the chamber
together. A deep silence reigned in the room as they entered.

"Is he asleep?" whispered the doctor.

"See!" The wife threw back the sheet.

"O!" was the only sound that escaped the doctor's lips. It was a
prolonged sound, and uttered in a tone of exquisite distress. The
white and ghastly face of death was before him.

"It is your work!" murmured the unhappy woman, half beside herself
in her affliction.

"Madam! do not say that!" ejaculated the physician. "Do not say
that!"

"It is the truth! Did he not charge it upon you with his dying
breath?"

"I did all for the best, madam! all for the best! It was an error in
his case. But I meant him no harm."

"You put poison to his lips, and destroyed him. You have made his
wife a widow and his children orphans!"

"Madam!--"The doctor knit his brows and spoke in a stern voice. But,
ere he had uttered a word more, the stricken-hearted woman gave a
wild scream and fell upon the floor. Nature had been tried beyond
the point of endurance, and reason was saved at the expense of
physical prostration.

A few weeks later, and Doctor L--, in driving past the former
residence of Mr. Hobart, saw furniture cars at the door. The family
were removing. Death had taken the husband and father, and the poor
widow was going forth with her little ones from the old and pleasant
home, to gather them around her in a smaller and poorer place. His
feelings at the moment none need envy.

How many, like Mr. Hobart, have died through the insane prescription
of brandy as a preventive to cholera! and how many more have fallen
back into old habits, and become hopeless drunkards! Brandy is not
good for health at any time; how much less so, when the very air we
breathe is filled with a subtle poison, awaiting the least
disturbance in the human economy to affect it with disease.






THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.





"I WANT a quarter of a dollar, Jane."

This was addressed by a miserable creature, bloated and disfigured
by intemperance, to a woman, whose thin, pale face, and heart-broken
look, told but too plainly that she was the drunkard's wife.

"Not a quarter of a dollar, John? Surely you will not waste a
quarter of a dollar of my hard earnings, when you know that I can
scarcely get food and decent clothes for the children?"

As the wife said this, she looked up into her husband's face with a
sad appealing expression.

"I must have a quarter, Jane," said the man firmly.

"O, John! remember our little ones. The cold-weather will soon be
here, and I have not yet been able to get them shoes. If you will
not earn any thing yourself, do not waste the little my hard labor
can procure. Will not a sixpence do? Surely that is enough for you
to spend for--"

"Nothing will do but a quarter, Jane, and that I must have, if I
steal it!" was the prompt and somewhat earnest reply.

Mrs. Jarvis laid aside her work mechanically and, rising, went to a
drawer, and from a cup containing a single dollar in small pieces,
her little all, took out a quarter of a dollar, and turning to her
husband, said, as she handed it to him--

"Remember, that you are taking the bread out of your children's
mouths!"

"Not so bad as that, I hope, Jane," said the drunkard, as he
clutched the money eagerly; something like a feeble smile flitting
across his disfigured and distorted countenance.

"Yes, and worse!" was the response, made in a sadder tone than that
in which the wife had at first spoken.

"How worse, Jane?"

"John!" and the wife spoke with a sudden energy, while her
countenance lighted up with a strange gleam. "John, I cannot bear
this much longer! I feel myself sinking every day. And you--you who
pledged yourself--"

Here the voice of the poor woman gave way, and covering her face
with her hands, she bent her head upon her bosom, and sobbed and
wept hysterically.

The drunkard looked at her for a moment, and then turning hurriedly,
passed from the room. For some moments after the door had closed
upon her husband, did Mrs. Jarvis stand, sobbing and weeping. Then
slowly returning to her chair near the window, she resumed her,
work, with an expression of countenance that was sad and hopeless.

In the mean time, the poor wretch who had thus reduced his family to
a state of painful destitution, after turning away from his door,
walked slowly along the street with his head bowed down, as if
engaged in, to him, altogether a new employment, that of
self-communion. All at once a hand was laid familiarly upon his
shoulders, and a well-known voice said--

"Come, John, let's have a drink."

"Jarvis looked up with a bewildered air, and the first thing that
caught his eye, after it glanced away from the face of one of his
drinking cronies, was a sign with bright gold letters, bearing the
words, "EAGLE COFFEE-HOUSE." That sign was as familiar to him as the
face of one of his children. At the same moment that his eyes rested
upon this, creating an involuntary impulse to move towards the
tavern-door, his old crony caught hold of his coat-collar and gave
him a pull in the same direction. But much to the surprise of the
latter, Jarvis resisted this attempt to give his steps a direction
that would lead him into his old, accustomed haunt.

"Won't you drink this morning, Jarvis?" asked the other, with a look
of surprise.

There was evidently a powerful struggle going on in the mind of the
drunkard. This lasted only for a moment or two, when he said,
loudly, and emphatically--

"No!"

And instantly broke from his old boon companion, and hurried on his
way.

A loud laugh followed him, but he heeded it not. Ten minutes' walk
brought him to the store of a respectable tradesman.

"Is Mr. R--in?" he asked, as he entered.

"Back at the desk," was the answer of a clerk.

And Jarvis walked back with a resolute air.

"Mr. R--, I want to sign the pledge!"

"You, Jarvis?" Mr. R--said, in tones of gratified surprise.

"Yes, me, Mr. R--. It's almost a hopeless case; but here goes to
do my best."

"Are you fully sensible of what you are about doing, Jarvis?"

"I think I am, Mr. R--. I've drunk nothing since yesterday
morning, and with the help of Him above, I am determined never to
drink another drop as long as I live! So read me the pledge and let
me sign it."

Mr. R--turned at once to the constitution of the Washington
Temperance Society, and read the pledge thereunto annexed:

"'We, the undersigned, do pledge ourselves to each other, as
gentlemen, that we will not, hereafter, drink any spiritous liquors,
wine, malt, or cider, unless in sickness, and under the prescription
of a physician.'"

Jarvis took the pen in his hand, that trembled so he. could scarcely
make a straight mark on paper, and enrolled his name among the
hundreds of those, who, like him, had resolved to be men once more.
This done, he laid down the quarter of a dollar which he had
obtained from his wife, the admission fee required of all who joined
the society. As he turned from the tradesman's store, his step was
firmer and his head more erect, than, in a sober state, he had
carried it for many a day.

From thence he proceeded to a hatter's-shop.

"Well, Jarvis," was uttered in rather a cool, repulsive tone, as he
entered.

"Are you not in want of a journeyman, Mr. Warren?"

"I don't want you, Jarvis."

"If you will give me work, I'll never get drunk again, Mr. Warren."

"You've said that too many times, Jarvis. The last time you went off
when I was hurried with work, and caused me to disappoint a
customer, I determined never to have any thing more to do with you."

"But I'll never disappoint you again," urged the poor man earnestly.

"It's no use for you to talk to me, Jarvis. You and I are done with
each other. I have made up my mind never again to have a man in my
shop who drinks rum."

"But I've joined the temperance society, Mr. Warren."

"I don't care if you have: in two weeks you'll be lying in the
gutter."

"I'll never drink liquor again if I die!" said Jarvis, solemnly.

"Look here, you drunken vagabond!" returned the master hatter in
angry tones, coming from behind the counter, and standing in front
of the individual he was addressing--"if you are not out of this
shop in two minutes by the watch, I'll kick you into the street! So
there now--take your choice to go out, or be kicked out."

Jarvis turned sadly away without a reply, and passed out of the door
through which he had entered with a heart full of hope, now pained,
and almost ready to recede from his earnest resolution and pledge to
become a sober man and a better husband and father. He felt utterly
discouraged. As he walked slowly along the street, the fumes of a
coffee-house which he was passing, unconsciously, struck upon his
sense, and immediately came an almost overpowering desire for his
accustomed potation. He paused--

"Now that I try to reform, they turn against me," he sighed
bitterly. "It is no use; I am gone past hope!"

One step was taken towards the tavern-door, when it seemed as if a
strong hand held him back.

"No--no!" he murmured, "I have taken the pledge, and I will stand by
it, if I die!" Then moving resolutely onward, he soon found himself
near the door of another hatter's-shop. Hope again kindled up in his
bosom, and he entered.

"Don't you want a hand, Mr. Mason?" he asked, in a hesitating tone.

"Not a drunken one, Jarvis," was the repulsive answer.

"But I've reformed, Mr. Mason."

"So I should think from your looks."

"But, indeed, Mr. Mason I have quit drinking, and taken the pledge."

"To break it in three days. Perhaps three hours."

"Won't you give me work, Mr. Mason, if I promise to be sober?"

"No! For I would not give a copper for your promises."

Poor Jarvis, turned away. When he had placed his hand to the pledge,
he dreamed not of these repulses and difficulties. He was a good
workman, and he thought that any one of his old employers would be
glad to get him back again, so soon as they learned of his having
signed the total-abstinence pledge. But he had so often promised
amendment, and so often broken his promise and disappointed them,
that they had lost all confidence in him; at least, the two to whom
he had, thus far, made application.

After leaving the shop of Mr. Mason, Jarvis seemed altogether
irresolute. He would walk on a few steps, and then pause to commune
with his troubled and bewildered thoughts.

"I will try Lankford," said he, at length, half-aloud; "he will give
me work, surely."

A brisk walk of some ten minutes brought him to the door of a small
hatter's-shop in a retired street. Behind the counter of this shop
stood an old man, busily employed in ironing a hat. There was
something benevolent in his countenance and manner. As Jarvis
entered, he looked up, and a shade passed quickly over his face.

"Good morning, Mr. Lankford," said Jarvis, bowing, with something
like timidity and shame in his manner.

"Are you not afraid to come here, John?" replied the old man,
sternly.

"I am ashamed to come, but not afraid. You will not harm me, I
know."

"Don't trust to that, John. Did you not steal, ay, that is the
word--did you not steal from me the last time I employed you?" The
old man was stern and energetic in his manner.

"I was so wicked as to take a couple of skins, Mr. Lankford, but I
did very wrong, and am willing to repay you for them, if you will
give me work. I was in liquor when I did it, and, when in liquor, I
have no distinct consciousness of the evil of any action."

"Give you work, indeed! O, no! John; I cannot give you another
chance to rob me."

"But I will not get drunk any more. And you know, Mr. Lankford, that
while I was a sober man, and worked for you, I never wronged you out
of a sixpence worth."

"Won't get drunk any more! Ah! John, I have lived too long in. the
world, and have seen too much, to heed such promises."

"But I am in earnest, Mr. Lankford. I signed the pledge this
morning."

"You!" in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, _I_ signed it."

"Ah, John," after a pause, and shaking his head. incredulously, "I
cannot credit your word, and I am sorry for it."

"If I have signed the pledge, and if I am really determined to be a
reformed man, will you give me work, Mr. Lankford!"

The old man thought for a few moments, and then said,
half-sorrowfully--

"I am afraid of you, John. You are such an old offender on the score
of drunkenness, that I have no confidence in your power to keep the
pledge."

"Then what _shall_ I do!" the poor wretch exclaimed, in tones that
made the heart of the old man thrill--for nature and pathos were in
them. "Now that I am trying in earnest to do better, no one will
give me a word of encouragement, nor a helping hand. Heaven help
me!--for I am forsaken of man."

Mr. Lankford stood thoughtful and irresolute for some moments. At
length, he said--

"John, if you will bring me a certificate from Mr. R--, that you
have signed the total-abstinence pledge, I will give you another
trial. But if you disappoint me again, you and I are done for ever."

The countenance of Jarvis brightened up instantly. He turned quickly
away, without reply, and hurried off to the store of Mr. R--, the
secretary of the society he had joined. The certificate was, of
course, obtained.

"And you have joined, sure enough, John," Mr. Lankford said, in a
changed tone, as he glanced over the certificate.

"Indeed I have, Mr. Lankford."

"And you seem in earnest."

"If I was ever in earnest about any thing in my life, I am in
earnest now."

"Keep to your pledge, then, John, and all will be well. While you
were a sober man, I preferred you to any journeyman in my shop. Keep
sober, and you shall never want a day's work while I am in
business."

The poor man was now shown his place in the shop, and once again he
resumed his work, though under a far different impulse than had, for
years, nerved him to action.

Two hours brought his regular dinner-time, when Jarvis, who began to
feel the want of food, returned home, with new and strange feelings
about his heart. One impulse was to tell his wife what he had done,
and what he was doing. But then he remembered how often he had
mocked her new springing hopes--how often he had promised amendment,
and once even joined a temperance society, only to relapse into a
lower and more degraded condition.

"No, no," he said to himself, after debating the question in his
mind, as he walked towards home; "I will not tell her now. I will
first present some fruit of my repentance. I will give such an
assurance as will create confidence and hope."

Mrs. Jarvis did not raise her eyes to the face of her husband, as he
entered. The sight of that once loved countenance, distorted and
disfigured, ever made her heart sick when she looked upon it. Jarvis
seated himself quietly in a chair, and held out his hands for his
youngest child, not over two years old, who had no consciousness of
his father's degradation. In a moment the happy little creature was
on his knee. But the other children showed no inclination to
approach.

The frugal meal passed in silence and restraint. Mrs. Jarvis felt
troubled and oppressed--for the prospect before her seemed to grow
more and more gloomy. All the morning she had suffered from a steady
pain in her breast, and from a lassitude that she could not
overcome. Her pale, thin, care-worn face, told a sad tale of
suffering, privation, confinement, and want of exercise. What was to
become of her children she knew not. Under such feelings of
hopelessness, to have one sitting by her side, who could take much
of her burdens from her, were he but to will it--who could call back
the light to her heart, if only true to his promise, made in earlier
and happier years--soured in some degree her feelings, and obscured
her perceptions. She did not note that some change had passed upon
him; a change that if marked, would have caused her heart to leap in
her bosom.

As soon as Jarvis had risen from the table, he took his hat, and
kissing his youngest child, the only one there who seemed to regard
him, passed quickly from the house. As the door closed after him,
his wife heaved a long sigh, and then rising, mechanically,
proceeded to clear up the table. Of how many crushed affections and
disappointed hopes, did that one deep, tremulous sigh, speak!

Jarvis returned to his work, and applied himself steadily during the
whole afternoon. Whenever a desire for liquor returned upon him, he
quenched it in a copious draught of water, and thus kept himself as
free from temptation as possible. At night he returned, when the
same troubled and uneasy silence pervaded the little family at the
supper-table. The meal was scanty, for Mrs. Jarvis's incessant labor
could procure but a poor supply of food. After the children had been
put to bed, Mrs. Jarvis sat down, as usual, to spend the evening,
tired as she was, and much as her breast pained her, in sewing. A
deep sigh heaved involuntarily her bosom as she did so. It caught
the ear of her husband, and smote upon his heart. He knew that her
health was feeble, and that constant labor fatigued her excessively.

"I wouldn't sew to-night, Jane," he said. "You look tired. Rest for
one evening."

Mrs Jarvis neither looked up nor replied. There was something in the
tone of her husband's voice that stirred her feelings;--something
that softened her heart towards him. But she dared not trust herself
to speak, nor to let her eye meet his. She did not wish to utter a
harsh nor repulsive word, nor was she willing to speak kindly to
him, for she did not feel kindly,--and kind words and affected
cheerfulness, she had already found but encouraged him in his evil
ways. And so she continued to ply her needle, without appearing to
regard his presence. Her husband did not make another effort to
induce her to suspend her labors; for, under existing circumstances,
he was particularly desirous of not provoking her to use towards him
the language of rebuke and censure. After sitting silent, for,
perhaps half an hour, he rose from his chair, and walked three or
four times backwards and forwards across the room, preparatory to
going out to seek a coffee-house, and there spend his evening, as
his wife supposed. But much to her surprise, he retired to their
chamber, in the adjoining room. While still under the expectation of
seeing him return, his loud breathing caught her quick ear. He was
asleep!

Catching up the light, as she arose suddenly to her feet, she
passed, with a hasty step, into the chamber. He had undressed
himself, was in bed, and sound asleep. She held the candle close to
his face; it was calmer than usual, and somewhat paler. As she bent
over him, his breath came full in her face. It was not loaded with
the disgusting fumes that had so often sickened her. Her heart beat
quicker--the moisture dimmed her eye--her whole frame trembled. Then
looking upwards, she uttered a single prayer for her husband, and,
gliding quietly from the room, sat down by her little table and
again bent over her work. Now she remembered that he had said, with
something unusual in his tones--"I would not sew to-night, Jane; you
look tired; rest for one evening"--and her heart was agitated with a
new hope; but that hope, like the dove from the ark, found nothing
upon which to rest, and trembled back again into a feeling of
despondency.

On the next morning, the unsteady hand of Jarvis, as he lifted his
saucer to his lips at the breakfast-table, made his wife's heart
sink again in her bosom. She had felt a hope, almost unconsciously.
She remembered that at supper-time his hand was firm--now it was
unnerved. This was conclusive to her mind, that, notwithstanding his
appearance, he had been drinking. But few words passed during the
meal, for neither felt much inclined to converse.

After breakfast, Jarvis returned to the shop and worked steadily
until dinner-time, and then again until evening. As on the night
before, he did not go out, but retired early to bed. And this was
continued all the week. But the whole was a mystery to his poor
wife, who dared not even to hope for any real change for the better.
On Saturday, towards night, he laid by his work, put on his coat and
hat, and went into the front shop.

"So you have really worked a week, a sober man, John?" Mr. Lankford
said.

"Indeed, I have. Since last Sunday morning, no kind of intoxicating
liquor has passed my lips."

"How much have you earned this week, John?"

"Here is the foreman's account of my work, sir. It comes to twelve
dollars."

"Still a fast workman. You will yet recover yourself, and your
family will again be happy, if you persevere."

"O, sir, they shall be happy! I _will_ persevere!"

Another pause ensued, and then Jarvis said, while the color mounted
to his cheek--

"If you are willing, Mr. Lankford, I should like you to deduct only
one-half of what I owe you for those furs I took from you, from this
week's wages. My family are in want of a good many things; and I am
particularly desirous of buying a barrel of flour to-night."

"Say nothing of that, John. Let it be forgotten with your past
misdeeds. Here are your wages--twelve dollars--and if it gives you
as much pleasure to receive, as it does me to pay them, then you
feel no ordinary degree of satisfaction."

Mr. Jarvis received the large sum for him to possess, and hurried
away to a grocery. Here he bought, for six dollars, a barrel of
flour, and expended two dollars more of his wages in sugar, coffee,
tea, molasses, &c. Near to the store was the market-house. Thence he
repaired, and bought meat and various kinds of vegetables, with
butter, &c. These he carried to the store, and gave directions to
have all sent home to him. He had now two dollars left out of the
twelve he had earned since Monday morning, and with these in his
pocket, he returned home. As he drew near the house, his heart
fluttered in anticipation of the delightful change that would pass
upon all beneath its humble roof. He had never in his life,
experienced feelings of such real joy.

A few moments brought him to the door, and he went in with the quick
step that had marked his entrance for several days. It was not quite
dark, and his wife sat sewing by the window. She was finishing a
pair of pantaloons that had to go home that very evening, and with
the money she was to get for them she expected to buy the Sunday
dinner. There was barely enough food in the house for supper; and
unless she received her pay for this piece of work, she had no means
of getting the required sustenance for herself and children--or
rather, for her husband, herself and children. The individual for
whom it was intended was not a prompt pay-master, and usually
grumbled whenever Mrs. Jarvis asked him for money. To add to the
circumstances of concern and trouble of mind, she felt almost ready
to give up, from the excessive pain in her breast, and the weakness
of her whole frame. As her husband came in, she turned upon him an
anxious and troubled countenance; and then bent down over her work
and plied her needle hurriedly. As the twilight fell dimly around,
she drew nearer and nearer to the window, and at last stood up, and
leaned close up to the panes of glass, so that her hand almost
touched them, in order to catch the few feeble rays of light that
were still visible. But she could not finish the garment upon which
she wrought, by the light of day. A candle was now lit, and she took
her place by the table, not so much as glancing towards her husband,
who had seated himself in a chair, with his youngest child on his
knee. Half an hour passed in silence, and then Mrs. Jarvis rose up,
having taken the last stitch in the garment she was making, and
passed into the adjoining chamber. In a few minutes she came out,
with her bonnet and shawl on, and the pair of pantaloons that she
had just finished on her arm.

"Where are you going, Jane?" her husband asked, in a tone of
surprise, that seemed mingled with disappointment.

"I am going to carry home my work."

"But I wouldn't go now, Jane. Wait until after supper."

"No, John. I cannot wait until after supper. The work will be
wanted. It should have been home two hours ago."

And she glided from the room.

A walk of a few minutes brought her to the door of a tailor's-shop,
around the front of which hung sundry garments exposed for sale.
This shop she entered, and presented the pair of pantaloons to a man
who stood behind the counter. His face relaxed not a muscle as he
took them and made a careful examination of the work.

"They'll do," he at length said, tossing them aside, and resuming
his employment of cutting out a garment.

Poor Mrs. Jarvis paused, dreading to utter her request. But
necessity conquered the painful reluctance, and she said--

"Can you pay me for this pair to-night, Mr. Willets?"

"No. I've got more money to pay on Monday than I know where to get,
and cannot let a cent go out."

"But, Mr. Willets, I--"

"I don't want to hear any of your reasons, Mrs. Jarvis. You can't
have the money to-night."

Mrs. Jarvis moved slowly away, and had nearly reached the door, when
a thought of her children caused her to pause.

"I cannot go, Mr. Willets, without the money," she said, suddenly
turning, and speaking in an excited tone.

"You _will_ go, I'm thinking, madam," was the cool reply.

"O, sir," changing her tone, "pay me what you owe me; I want it very
much."

"O, yes. So you all say. But I am used to such make-believes. You
get no money out of me to-night, madam. That's a settled point. I'm
angry now--so you had better go home at once; if you don't, I'll
never give you a stitch of work, so help--"

Mrs. Jarvis did not pause to hear the concluding words of the
sentence.

"What _shall_ I do?" was the almost despairing question that she
asked of herself, as she hurried towards her home. On entering the
house she made no remark, for there was no one to whom she could
tell her troubles and disappointment, with even the most feeble hope
of a word of comfort.

"Does Mr. Jarvis live here?" asked a rough voice at the door.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Well, here is a barrel of flour and some groceries for him."

"There must be some mistake, sir."

"Is not this Mr. Jarvis's?"

"Yes."

"And number 40?"

"Yes."

"Then this is the place, for that was the direction given me."

"Yes, this is the place--bring them in," spoke up Jarvis, in an
animated tone.

The drayman, of course, obeyed. First he rolled in the barrel of
flour; then came a number of packages, evidently containing
groceries; and, finally, one or two pieces of meat, and sundry lots
of vegetables.

"How much is to pay?" asked Jarvis.

"Twenty-five cents, sir," responded the drayman, bowing.

The twenty-five cent piece was taken from his pocket with quite an
air, and handed over. Then the drayman went out and that little
family were alone again. During the passage of the scene just
described, the wife stood looking on with a stupid and bewildered
air. When the drayman had departed, she turned to her husband, and
said--

"'John, where did these things come from?"

"I bought them, Jane."

"You bought them?"

"Yes, I bought them."

"And pray, John, what did you buy them with?"

"With the quarter of a dollar you gave me on Monday."

"John!"

"It is true, Jane. With that quarter I went and joined the
Washington Total-Abstinence Society, and then went to work at Mr.
Lankford's. Here is the result of one week's work, besides this
silver," handing her all that remained, after making the purchases.

"O, John, John," the wife exclaimed, bursting into tears, "do not
again mock my hopes. I cannot bear much more."

"In the strength of Him, Jane, who has promised to help us when we
call upon Him, 'I will not disappoint the hopes I now revive,'" said
Jarvis, slowly and solemnly.

The almost heart-broken wife and mother leaned her head upon the
shoulder of her husband, and clung to his side with a newly-revived
confidence, that she felt would not be disappointed, while the tears
poured from her eyes like rain. But her true feelings we cannot
attempt to describe--nor dare we venture to sketch further the scene
we have introduced. The reader's imagination can do it more justice,
and to him we leave that pleasing task, with only the remark, that
Mrs. Jarvis's newly-awakened joys and hopes have not again been
disappointed.






TIME, FAITH, ENERGY.





"I DON'T see that I am so much better off," said Mr. Gordon, a man
who had recently given up drinking. "I lost my situation on the very
day I signed the pledge, and have had no regular employment since."

"But you would have lost your situation if you hadn't signed the
pledge, I presume," said the individual to whom he was complaining.

"Yes. I lost it because I got drunk and spoiled my job. But to hear
some temperance people talk, one who didn't know would be led to
believe that, the very moment the pledge was signed, gold could be
picked up in the streets. I must confess that I haven't found it so.
Money is scarcer with me than it ever was; and though I don't spend
a cent for myself, my family haven't a single comfort more than they
had before."

"Though there's no disputing the fact that they would have many less
comforts if you hadn't signed the pledge?"

"No, I suppose not. But I cannot help feeling discouraged at the way
things go. If I had the same wages I received before I signed the
pledge, I could be laying up money. But, as it is, it requires the
utmost economy to keep from getting in debt."

"Still, you do manage to keep even?"

"Yes."

"On about half your former income?"

"A little over half. I used to get ten dollars a week. Now I manage,
by picking up odd jobs here and there, to make about six."

"Then you are better off than you were before."

"I hardly see how you can make that out."

"Your family have enough to live upon--all they had before--and you
have a healthier body, a calmer mind, and a clearer conscience.
Isn't here something gained?"

"I rather think there is," replied Gordon, smiling.

"And I rather think you are a good deal better off than you were
before. Isn't your wife happier?"

"O! yes. She's as cheerful as a lark all the day."

"And doesn't murmur because of your light wages?"

"No, indeed! not she. I believe if I didn't earn more than three
dollars a week, and kept sober, she would make it do, somehow or
other, and keep a good heart. It's wonderful how much she is
changed!"

"And yet you are no better off? Ain't you better off in having a
happy wife and a pleasant home, what I am sure you hadn't before?"

"You are right in that. I certainly had neither of them before. Oh!
yes. I am much better off all around. I only felt a little
despondent, because I can't get regular employment as I used to, and
good wages; for now, if I had these, I could do so well."

"Be patient, friend Gordon; time will make all right. There are
three words that every reformed man should write on the walls of his
chamber, that he may see them every morning. They are 'Time, Faith,
Energy.' No matter how low he may have fallen; no matter how
discouraging all things around him may appear; let him have energy,
and faith in time, and all will come out well at last."

Gordon went home, feeling in better heart than when he met the
temperance friend who had spoken to him these encouraging words.

Henry Gordon, when he married, had just commenced business for
himself, and went on for several years doing very well. He laid by
enough money to purchase himself a snug little house, and was in a
good way for accumulating a comfortable property, when the habit of
dram-drinking, which he had indulged for years, became an
over-mastering passion. From that period he neglected his business,
which steadily declined. In half the time it took to accumulate the
property he possessed, all disappeared--his business was broken up,
and he compelled to work at his trade as a journeyman to support his
family. From a third to a half of the sum he earned weekly, he spent
in gratifying the debasing appetite that had almost beggared his
family and reduced him to a state of degradation little above that
of the brute. The balance was given to his sad-hearted wife, to get
food for the hungry, half-clothed children.

Nor was this all. Debts were contracted which Gordon was unable to
pay. One or two of his creditors, more exacting than the rest,
seized upon his furniture and sold it to satisfy their claims,
leaving to the distressed family only the few articles exempt by
law.

Things had reached this low condition, when Gordon came home from
the shop, one day, some hours earlier than usual. Surprised at
seeing him, his wife said--

"What's the matter, Henry? Are you sick?"

"No!" he replied, sullenly, "I'm discharged."

"Discharged! For what, Henry?"

"For spoiling a job."

"How did that happen?" Mrs. Gordon spoke kindly, although she felt
anxious and distressed.

"How has all my trouble happened?" asked Gordon, with unusual
bitterness of tone. "I took a glass too much, and--and--"

"It made you spoil your job," said his wife, her voice still kind.

"Yes. Curse the day I ever saw a drop of liquor! It has been the
cause of all my misfortunes."

"Why not abandon its use at once and for ever, Henry?"

"That is not so easily done."

"Hundreds have done it, and are doing it daily, and so may you. Only
make the resolution, Henry. Only determine to break these fetters,
and you are free. Let the time past, wherein you have wrought folly,
and your family suffered more than words can express, suffice. Only
will it, and there will be a bright future for all of us."

Tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Gordon while she made this appeal,
although she strove hard to appear calm. Her husband felt a better
spirit awaking within him. There was a brief struggle between
appetite and the good resolution that was forming in his mind, and
then the latter conquered.

"I will be free!" he said, turning towards the door through which he
had a little while before entered, and hurriedly leaving the house.

The hour that passed from the time her husband went out until he
returned, was one of most anxious suspense to Mrs. Gordon. Her hand
trembled so that she could not hold her needle, and was obliged to
lay aside the sewing upon which she was engaged, and go about some
household employments.

"Mary, I have signed the pledge, if that will do any good," said
Gordon, opening the door and coming in upon his wife with his pledge
in his hand. "There," and he unrolled the paper and pointed to his
name; "there is my signature, and here is the document."

He did not speak very cheerfully; but his wife's face was lit up
with a sudden brightness, followed by a gush of tears.

"Do any good!" she replied, leaning her head upon his shoulder, and
grasping one of his hands tightly in both of hers. "It will do all
good!"

"But I have no work, Mary. I was discharged to-day, and it is the
only shop in town. What are we to do?"

"Mr. Evenly will take you back, now that you have signed the
pledge."

"Perhaps he will!" Gordon spoke more cheerfully. "I will go and see
him to-morrow."

Mrs. Gordon prepared her husband a strong cup of coffee, and baked
some nice hot cakes for his supper. She combed her hair, and made
herself as tidy as possible. The children, too, were much improved
in their looks by a little attention, which their mother felt
encouraged to give. There was an air of comfort about the
ill-furnished dwelling of Henry Gordon that it had not known for a
long time, and he felt it.

On the next morning, after breakfast, Gordon went back to the shop
from which he had been discharged only the day previous. Evenly, the
owner of it, was a rough, unfeeling man, and had kept Gordon on,
month after month, because he could not well do without him. But, on
the very day he discharged him, a man from another town had applied
for work, and the spoiled job was made an excuse for discharging a
journeyman, whose habits of intoxication had always been offensive
to the master-workman.

When Gordon entered the shop for the purpose of asking to be taken
back, he met Evenly near the door, who said to him, in a rough
manner--

"And what do you want, pray?"

"I want you to take me back again," replied Gordon. "I have signed
the pledge, and intend leading a sober life hereafter."

"The devil you have!"

"Yes sir. I signed it yesterday, after you discharged me."

"How long do you expect to keep it?" asked Evenly, with a sneer.
"Long enough to reach the next grogshop?"

"I have taken the pledge for life, I trust," returned the workman,
seriously. He was hurt at the contemptuous manner of his old
employer, but his dependent condition made him conceal his feelings.
"You will have no more trouble with me."

"No, I am aware of that. I will have no more trouble with you, for I
never intend to let you come ten feet inside the front door of my
shop."

"But I have reformed my bad habit, Mr. Evenly. I will give you no
more trouble with my drinking," said the poor man, alarmed at this
language.

"It's no use for you to talk to me, Gordon," replied Evenly, in a
rough manner. "I've long wanted to get rid of you, and I have
finally succeeded. Your place is filled. So there is no more to say
on that subject. Good morning."

And the man turned on his heel and left Gordon standing half
stupified at what he had heard.

"Rum's done the business for you at last, my lark! I told you it
would come to this!" said an old fellow workman, who heard what
passed between Gordon and the employer. He spoke in a light,
insulting voice.

Without replying, the unhappy man left the shop, feeling more
wretched than he had ever felt in his life.

"And thus I am met at my first effort to reform!" he murmured,
bitterly.

"Hallo, Gordon! Where are you going?" cried a voice as these words
fell from his lips.

He looked up and found himself opposite to the door of one of his
old haunts. It was the keeper of it who had called him.

"Come! Walk in and let us see your pleasant face this morning. Where
were you last night? My company all complained about your absence.
We were as dull as a funeral."

"Curse you and your company too!" ejaculated Gordon between his
teeth, and moved on, letting his eyes fall again to the pavement.

"Hey-day! What's the matter?"

But Gordon did not stop to bandy words with one of the men who had
helped to ruin him.

"It's all over with us, Mary. Evenly's got a man in my place," said
Gordon, as he entered his house and threw himself despairingly into
a chair. "But won't he give you work, too?" asked Mrs. Gordon, in a
husky voice.

"No! He insulted me, and said I should never come ten feet inside of
his shop."

"Did you tell him that you had signed the pledge?"

"Yes. But it was no use. He did not seem to care for me any more
than he did for a dog."

The poor man's distress was so great that he covered his face with
his hands, and sat swinging his body to and fro, and uttering
half-suppressed moans.

"What are we to do, Mary? There is no other shop in town," he said,
looking up, after growing a little calm. "Doesn't it seem hard, just
as I am trying to do right?"

"Don't despair, Henry. Let us trust in Providence. It is only a dark
moment; yet, dark as it is, it is brighter to me than any period has
been for years. A clear head and ready hands will not go long
unemployed. I do not despond, dear husband, neither should you. Keep
fast anchored to your pledge, and we will outride the storm."

"But we shall starve, Mary. We cannot live upon air."

"No," replied Mrs. Gordon; "but we can live upon half what you have
been earning at your trade, and quite as comfortably as we have been
living. And it will be an extreme case, I think, if you can't get
employment at five dollars a week, doing something or other. Don't
you?"

"It appears so. Certainly I ought to be able to earn five dollars a
week, if it is at sawing wood. I'll do that--I'll do any thing."

"Then we needn't be alarmed. I'll try and get some sewing at any
rate, to help out. So brighten up, Henry. All will be well. It will
take a little time to get things going right again; but time and
industry will do all for us that we could ask."

Thus encouraged, Gordon started out to see if he could find
something to do. It was a new thing for him to go in search of work;
and rather hard, he felt, to be obliged almost to beg for it. Where
to go, or to whom to apply, he did not know. After wandering about
for several hours, and making several applications at out of the way
places with no success, he turned his steps homeward, feeling
utterly cast down. In this state, he was assailed by the temptation
to drown all his trouble in the cup of confusion, and nearly drawn
aside; but a thought of his wife, and the bright hope that had
sprung up in her heart in the midst of darkness, held him back.

"It's no use to try, Mary," he said, despondingly, as he entered his
poorly-furnished abode, and found his wife busy with her needle. "I
can't get any work."

"I have been more successful than you have, Henry," Mrs. Gordon
returned, speaking cheerfully. "I went to see if Mrs. Hewitt hadn't
some sewing to give out, and she gave me a dozen shirts to make. So
don't be discouraged. You can afford to wait for work even for two
or three weeks, if it doesn't come sooner. Let us be thankful for
what we have to-day, and trust in God for to-morrow. Depend upon it,
we shall not want. Providence never forsakes the man who is trying
to do right."

Thus Mrs. Gordon strove to keep up the spirits of her husband. After
dinner, he went out again and called to see a well-known temperance
man. After relating to him what he had done, and how unhappily he
was situated in regard to work, the man said--

"It won't do to be idle, Gordon; that's clear. An idle man is
tempted ten times to another's once. You will never be able to keep
the pledge unless you get something to do. We must assist you in
this matter. What can you do besides your trade?"

"I have little skill beyond my regular calling; but then, I have
health, strength, and willingness; and I think these might be made
useful in something."

"So do I. Now to start with, I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will
come and open my store for me every morning, make the fire and sweep
out, and come and stay an hour for me every day while I go to
dinner, I will give you three dollars a week. Two hours a day is all
your time I shall want."

"Thank you from my heart! Of course I accept your offer. So far so
good," said Gordon, brightening up.

"Very well. You may begin with to-morrow morning. No doubt you can
make an equal sum by acting as a light porter for the various stores
about. I can throw a little in your way; and I will speak to my
neighbors to do the same." There was not a happier home in the whole
town than was the home of Henry Gordon that night, poor as it was.

"I knew it would all come out right," said Mrs. Gordon. "I knew a
better day was coming. We can live quite comfortably upon five or
six dollars a week, and be happier than we have been for years."

When Gordon thought of the past, he did not wonder that tears fell
over the face of his wife, even while her lips and eyes were bright
with smiles. As the friend had supposed, Gordon was employed to do
many errands by the storekeepers in the neighborhood. Some weeks he
made five dollars and sometimes six or seven. This went on for a few
months, when he began to feel discouraged. The recollection of other
and brighter days returned frequently to his mind, and he began
ardently to desire an improved external condition, as well for his
wife and children as for himself. He wished to restore what had been
lost; but saw no immediate prospect of being able to do so. Six
dollars a week was the average of his earnings, and it took all
this, besides what little his wife earned, to make things tolerably
comfortable at home.

Gordon was in a more desponding mood than usual, when he indulged in
the complaint with which our story opens. What was said to him
changed the tone of his feelings, and inspired him with a spirit of
cheerfulness and hope.

"Time, Faith, Energy!" he said to himself, as he walked with a more
elastic step. "Yes, these must bring out all right in the end. I
will not be so weak as to despond. All is much improved as it is. We
are happier and better. Time, Faith, Energy! I will trust in these."

When Gordon opened the door of his humble abode, he found a lad
waiting to see him, who arose, and presenting a small piece of
paper, said--

"Mr. Blake wishes to know when you can settle this?"

Mr. Blake was a grocer, to whom ten dollars had been owing for a
year. He had dunned the poor drunkard for the money until he got
tired of so profitless a business, and gave up the account for lost.
By some means, it had recently come to his ears that Gordon had
signed the pledge.

"Some chance for me yet," he said, and immediately had the bill made
out anew, and sent in; not thinking or caring whether it might not
be premature for him to do so, and have the effect to discourage the
poor man and drive him back to his old habits. What he wanted was
his money. It was his due; and he meant to have it if he could get
it.

"Tell Mr. Blake that I will pay him as soon as possible. At present
it is out of my power," said Gordon, in answer to the demand.

The lad, in the spirit of his master, turned away with a sulky air,
and left the house.

Poor Gordon's feelings went down to zero in a moment.

"It's hopeless, Mary! I see it all as plain as day," he said. "The
moment I get upon my feet, there will be a dozen to knock me down.
While I was a drunkard, no one thought of dunning me for money; but
now that I am trying to do right, every one to whom I am indebted a
dollar will come pouncing down upon me."

"It's a just debt, Henry, you know, and we ought to pay it."

"I don't dispute that. But we can't pay it now."

"Then Blake can't get it now; so there the matter will have to rest.
A little dunning won't kill us. We have had harder trials than that
to bear. So don't get discouraged so easily."

The words "Time, Faith, Energy!" came into the mind of Gordon and
rebuked him.

"There is sense in what you say, Mary," he replied. "I know I am too
easily discouraged. We owe Blake, that is clear; and I suppose he is
right in trying to get his money. We can't pay him now; and
therefore he can't get it now, do what he will. So we will be no
worse for his dunning, if he duns every day. But I hate so to be
asked for money."

"I'll tell you what might be done," said Mrs. Gordon.

"Well?" inquired the husband.

"Mr. Blake has a large family, and no doubt his wife gives out a
good deal of sewing. I could work it out."

Gordon thought a few moments, and then said--

"Or, better than that; perhaps Blake would let me work it out in his
store. I have a good deal of time on my hands unemployed."

"Yes, that would be better," replied Mrs. Gordon; "for I have as
much sewing as I can do, and get paid for it all."

This thought brightened the spirits of Gordon. As soon as he had
eaten his dinner he started for the store of Mr. Blake.

"I've come to talk to you about that bill of mine," said Mr. Gordon.

"Well, what of it?" returned the grocer. "I wish to pay it, but have
not the present ability. I lost my situation on the very day I
signed the pledge, and have had no regular employment since. So far,
I have only been able to pick up five or six dollars a week, and it
takes all that to live upon. But I have time to spare, Mr. Blake, if
I have no money; and if I can pay you in labor, I will be glad to do
so."

"I don't know that I could ask more than that," replied the grocer.
"If I did, I would be unreasonable. Let me see: I reckon I could
find a day's work for you about the store at least once a week, for
which I would allow you a credit of one dollar and a quarter. How
would that do?"

"It would be exactly what I would like. I can spare you a day
easily. And it is much better to work out an old debt than to be
idle."

"Very well, Gordon. Come to-morrow and work for me, and I will pass
a dollar and a quarter to your account. I like this. It shows you
are an honest man. Never fear but what you'll get along."

The approving words of the grocer encouraged Gordon very much. On
the next day he went as he had agreed and worked for Mr. Blake. When
he was about leaving the store at night, Blake called to him and
said--

"Here, Gordon; stop a moment. I want you to put up a pound of this
white crushed sugar; and a quarter of young hyson tea."

Gordon did as he was directed. Blake took the two packages from the
counter, and handing them to Gordon, said--

"Take them to your wife with my compliments, and tell her that I
wish her joy of an honest husband."

Gordon took the unexpected favor, and without speaking, turned
hastily from the grocer and walked away.

    "Behind _that_ frowning Providence
     He hid a smiling face,"

said Mrs. Gordon, with tearful eyes, when her husband presented her
the sugar and tea, and repeated what the grocer had said.

"Yes. It was a blessing sent to us in disguise," returned Gordon.
"How little do we know of the good or ill that lies in our immediate
future!"

"Do not say ill, dear husband--only seeming ill; if we think right
and do right. When God makes our future, all is good; the ill is of
our own procuring."

"Right, Mary. I see that truth as clear as if a sunbeam shone upon
it."

"Time, Faith, Energy!" murmured Gordon to himself, as he lay awake
that night, thinking of the future. Before losing himself in sleep,
he had made up his mind to go to another creditor for a small
amount, and see if he could not make a similar arrangement with him
to the one entered into with the grocer. The man demurred a little,
and then said he would take time to think about it. When Gordon
called again, he declined the proposition, and said he had sold his
goods for money, not for work.

"But I have no money," replied Gordon.

"I'll wait awhile and see," returned the man, in a way and with a
significance that fretted the mind of Gordon.

"He'll wait until he sees me getting a little ahead, and then pounce
down upon me like a hawk upon his prey."

Over this idea the reformed man worried himself, and went home to
his wife unhappy and dispirited.

"I owe at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars," he
said; "and there is no hope of inducing all of those to whom money
is due to wait until we can pay them with comfort to ourselves. I
shall be tormented to death, I see that plain enough."

"Don't you look at the dark side, Henry?" replied his wife to this.
"I think you do. You owe some eight or ten persons, and one of them
has asked you for what was due. You offered to work out the debt,
and he accepted your offer. To another who has not asked you, you go
and make the same offer, which he declines, preferring to wait for
the money. There is nothing so really discouraging in all this, I am
sure. If he prefers waiting, let him wait. No doubt it will be the
same to us in the end. As to our getting much ahead or many comforts
around us until our debts are settled off, we might as well not
think of that. We will feel better to pay what we owe as fast as we
earn it; and, more than that, it will put the temptation to distress
us in nobody's way. If one man won't let you work out your debt, why
another will. I've no doubt that two-thirds of your creditors will
be glad to avail themselves of the offer."

Thus re-assured, Gordon felt better. On the next day he tried a
third party to whom he owed fifteen dollars. This man happened to
keep a retail grocery and liquor store. That is, he had a bar at one
counter, and sold groceries at the other. Two-thirds of the debt was
for liquor. "I want to wipe off that old score of mine, if I can,
Mr. King," said Gordon, as he met the storekeeper at his own door.

"That's clever," replied Mr. King. "Walk in. What will you take?
Some brandy?"

And Mr. King stepped behind the counter and laid his hand upon a
decanter.

"Nothing at all, I thank you," replied Gordon quickly.

"Why how's that? Have you sworn off?"

"Yes. I've joined the temperance society."

The storekeeper shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't expect that of
you, Gordon. I thought you were too fond of a little creature
comfort."

"I ruined myself and beggared my family by drink, if that is what
you mean by creature comfort. Poor comfort it was for my wife and
children, to say nothing of my own case, which was, Heaven knows,
bad enough. But I have come to talk to you about paying off that old
score. Now that I've given up drinking, I want to try and be honest
if I can."

"That's right. I like to see a man, when he sets out to be decent,
go the whole figure. Have you got the money?"

"No. I wish I had. I have no money and not half work; but I have
time on my hands, Mr. King."

"Time? That is what some people call money. You want to pay me in
time, instead of money, I presume? Rather rich, that, Gordon! But
time don't pass current, like money, in these diggins, my friend.
There are a plenty who come here--and throw it away for nothing. I
can get more than I want."

"I have no wish to throw my time away, nor to pass it upon you for
money, Mr. King. What I want is, to render you some service--in
other words, to work for you, if you can give me something to do. I
have time on my hands unemployed, and I wish to turn it to some good
account."

"O, yes. I understand now. Very well, Gordon; I rather think I can
meet your views. Yesterday my barkeeper was sent to prison for
getting into a scrape while drunk, and I want his place supplied
until he gets out. Come and tend bar for me a couple of weeks, and I
will give you a receipt in full of all demands."

Gordon shook his head and looked grave.

"What's the matter? Won't you do it?"

"No, sir. I can't do that."

"Why?"

"Because I have sworn neither to taste, touch, nor handle the
accursed thing. Neither to drink it myself, nor put it to the lips
of another. No, no, Mr. King, I can't do that. But I will sell your
groceries for you three days in the week, for four weeks. Part of my
time is already regularly engaged."

"Go off about your business!" said the store-keeper, his face red
with anger at the language of the reformed man, which he was pleased
to consider highly insulting. "I'll see to collecting that bill in a
different way from that."

By this time Gordon was learning not to be frightened and
discouraged at every thing. His wife had so often showed him its
folly, that he felt ashamed to go to her again in a desponding mood,
and therefore cheered himself up before going home.

In other quarters he found rather better success. Not all of those
he owed were of the stamp of the two to whom application had last
been made. In less than six months he had worked out nearly a
hundred dollars of what he owed, and had regular employment that
brought him in six dollars every week, besides earning, by odd jobs
and light porterage, from two to three dollars. His wife rarely let
a week go without producing her one or two dollars by needle-work.
Little comforts gradually crept in, notwithstanding all their debts
were not yet paid off. This was inevitable.

By the end of twelve months Gordon found himself clear of debt, and
in a good situation in a store at five hundred dollars a year.

"So much for 'Time, Faith, Energy,'" he said to himself, as he
walked backwards and forwards, in his comfortable little home, one
evening, thinking of the incidents of the year, and the results that
had followed. "I would not have believed it. Scarcely a twelvemonth
has passed, and here am I, a sober man and out of debt."

"Though still very far from the advanced position in the world you
held a few years ago, and to which you can never more attain," said
a desponding voice within him. "A man never has but one chance for
attaining ease and competence in this life. If he neglects that, he
need not waste his time in any useless struggles."

"Time, Faith, Energy!" spoke out another voice. "If one year has
done so much for you, what will not five, ten, or twenty years do?
Redouble your energies, have confidence in the future, and time will
make all right."

"I will have faith in time; I will have energy!" responded the man
in Gordon, speaking aloud.

From that time Gordon and his wife lived with even stricter economy
than before, in order to lay by a little money with which he
could,--at some future time, re-commence his own business, which was
profitable. There was still only a single shop in town, and that was
the one owned by his old employer, who had, in fact, built himself
up on his downfall, when he took to drinking and neglecting his
business. On less than a thousand dollars Gordon did not think of
commencing business. Less than that he knew would make the effort a
doubtful one. This amount he expected to save in about five years.

Two years of this time had elapsed, and Gordon had four hundred
dollars invested and bearing interest. He still held his situation
at five hundred dollars per annum. The only shop yet established in
the town for doing the work for which he was qualified both as a
journeyman and master workman, was that owned and still carried on
by his old employer, who had made a good deal of money; but who had,
of late, fallen into habits of dissipation and neglected his
business.

One evening, while Gordon was reading at home in his comfortable
little sitting-room, with his wife beside him engaged with her
needle, and both feeling very contented, there was a rap at the
door. On opening it Gordon recognized Mr. Evenly, and politely
invited him to come in. After being seated, his old employer, who
showed too plainly the debasing signs of frequent intoxication,
said--

"Gordon what are you doing now?"

The reformed man stated the nature of his occupation.

"What salary do you receive?" asked Evenly.

"Five hundred dollars a year."

"Do you like your present employment?"

"Yes, very well. It is lighter than my old business, and much
cleaner."

"Would you be willing to come to work for me again?" further
inquired Evenly.

"I don't know that I would. My present situation is permanent, my
employer a very pleasant man, and my work easy."

"Three things that are very desirable, certainly. But I'll tell you
what I want, and what I will give you. Perhaps we can make a
bargain. There is no man in town who understands our business better
than you do. That I am free to admit. Heretofore I have been my own
manager; but I am satisfied that it will be for my interest to have
a competent foreman in my establishment. If I can find one to suit
me I will give him liberal wages. You will do exactly; and if you
will take charge of my shop, I will make your wages fifteen dollars
a week. What do you say to that?"

"I rather think," replied Gordon, "that I will accept your offer.
Five dollars a week advance in wages for a poor man is a
consideration not lightly to be passed by."

"It is not, certainly," remarked Evenly. "Then I may consider it
settled that you will take charge of my shop."

"Yes. I believe I needn't hesitate about the matter."

So the arrangement was made, and Gordon went back to the shop as
foreman, from which he had been discharged as a journeyman three
years before.

Firmly bent upon commencing the business for himself, whenever he
should feel himself able to do so, Gordon continued his frugal mode
of living for two years longer, when the amount of his savings,
interest and all added, was very nearly fifteen hundred dollars. The
time had now come for him to take the step he had contemplated for
four years. Evenly received the announcement with undisguised
astonishment. After committing to such competent hands the entire
manufacturing part of his business, he had given himself up more and
more to dissipation. Had it not been for the active and energetic
manner in which the affairs of the shop were conducted by Gordon,
every thing would have fallen into disorder. But in a fair ratio
with the neglect of his principal was he efficient as his agent.

"I can't let you go," said Evenly, when Gordon informed him of his
intention to go into business for himself. "If fifteen dollars a
week doesn't satisfy you, you shall have twenty."

"It is not the wages," replied Gordon. "I wish to go into business
for myself. From the first this has been my intention."

"But you haven't the capital."

"Yes. I have fifteen hundred dollars."

"You have!"

"Yes. I have saved it in four years. That will give me a fair start.
I am not afraid for the rest."'

Evenly felt well satisfied that if Gordon went into business for
himself, his own would be ruined, and therefore, finding all efforts
to dissuade him from his purpose of no avail, he offered to take him
in as a partner. But to this came an unexpected objection. Gordon
was averse to such a connection. Being pressed to state the reason
why, he frankly said--

"My unwillingness to enter into business with you arises from the
fact that you are, as I was four years ago, a slave to strong drink.
You are not yourself one half of the time, and hardly ever in a fit
condition to attend to business. Pardon me for saying this. But you
asked for my reason, and I have given it."

Evenly, at first, was angry. But reflection soon came, and then he
felt humiliated as he had never felt before. There was no intention
on the part of Gordon to insult him, nor to triumph over him, but
rather a feeling of sorrow; and this Evenly saw.

"And this is your only objection?" he at length said.

"I have none other," replied Gordon.

"If it did not exist you would meet my proposals?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Then it shall no longer exist. From this hour I will be as free
from the vice you have named as you are."

"Will you sign the pledge?"

"Yes, this very hour."

And he did so.

A year afterwards an old friend, who had joined the temperance ranks
about the time Gordon did, and who had only got along moderately
well, passed the establishment of EVENLY & GORDON, and saw the
latter standing in the door.

"Are you in this concern?" he asked, in some surprise.

"Yes."

"And making money fast?"

"We are doing very well."

"Gordon, I don't understand this altogether. I tried to recover
myself, but soon got discouraged, and have ever since plodded along
in a poor way I live, it is true; but you are doing much better than
that. What is your secret?"

"It lies in three words," replied Gordon.

"Name them."

"Time, Faith, Energy!"

The man looked startled for a moment, and then walked away wiser
than when he asked the question. Whether he will profit by the
answer we cannot tell. Others may, if they will.






FLUSHED WITH WINE.





"WASN'T that Ernestine Lee that we passed this moment?" asked Harvey
Lane, a young M.D., of his friend James Everett, in a tone of
surprise.

"Yes, I believe it was--"Everett returned, rather coldly.

"You believe it was! Surely, James, nothing has occurred to destroy
the intimacy that has for some time existed between you."

"You saw that we did not speak."

"I did."

"And, probably, shall never be on terms of friendship again."

"What you say pains me very much, James. Of course there is a reason
for so great a change. May I ask what it is?"

"It is, no doubt, a good deal my own fault. But still, I cannot help
thinking that she has taken offence too suddenly, where no offence
was intended. You know that I have been long paying attentions to
her?"

"Yes."

"If I remember rightly, I told you last week, that my intentions
towards her were of a serious character. In a word, that I had fully
made up my mind to ask her hand in marriage."

"O, yes,--I remember it very well. And that is the reason why I felt
so much surprised at seeing you pass each other, without speaking."

"Well, a few evenings ago, I called, as usual, intending, if a good
opportunity offered, to make known my true feelings towards her.
Unfortunately, I had dined out that day with some young friends. We
sat late at table, and when I left, I was a _little flushed with
wine_. It was a very little, for you know that I can drink pretty
freely without its being seen. But, somehow, or other, I was more
elated than is usual with me on such occasions, and when I called on
Ernestine, felt as free and easy as if everything was settled, and
we were to be married in a week. For a time, we chatted together
very pleasantly; then I asked her to play and sing for me. She went
to the piano, at my request, and played and sung two or three very
sweet airs. I don't know which it was that elated my feelings so
much--the wine, or the delightful music. Certain it is, that at the
conclusion of a piece, I was in such rapture, that I threw my arms
around her neck, drew back her head, and kissed her with emphatic
earnestness."

"Why, James!"

"You may well be surprised at the commission of so rude and
ungentlemanly an act. But, as I have said, I was flushed with wine."

"How did Ernestine act?"

"She was, of course, deeply indignant at the unwarrantable liberty.
Springing from the piano-stool, her face crimsoned over, she drew
herself up with a dignified air, and ordered me instantly to leave
her presence. I attempted to make an apology, but she would not hear
a word. I have since written to her, but my letter has been returned
unopened."

"Really, that is unfortunate," the friend of Everett said, with
concern. "Ernestine is a girl whom any man might be proud to gain as
a wife. And, besides her personal qualifications, a handsome fortune
will go with her hand."

"I know all that too well, Harvey. Fool that I have been, to mar
such prospects as were mine! But she must have known that I was not
myself--and ought to have charged the fault upon the wine, and not
upon me."

"Such a discrimination is not usually made."

"I know that it is not. And for not making it in my case, I
certainly cannot help blaming Ernestine a little. She must have
known, that, had I not been flushed with wine, I never would have
taken the liberty with her that I did. As it is, however, I am not
only pained at the consequences of my foolishness, but deeply
mortified at my conduct."

"Is there no hope of a reconciliation?"

"I do not think there is any. If she had accepted my written apology
for the act, there would have been some hope. But the fact of her
returning my letter unopened, is conclusive as to the permanency of
the breach. I can now make no further advances."

"Truly, it is mortifying!" the friend remarked. Then, after a pause,
he added, with emphasis--

"What fools this wine does make of us, sometimes!"

"Doesn't it? Another such a circumstance as this, would almost drive
me to join a temperance society."

"O, no, hardly that, James."

"Well, perhaps not. But, at least, to eschew wine for ever."

"Wine is good enough in its place; but, like fire, is rather a bad
master. Like you, I have injured my prospects in life by an
over-indulgence in the pleasures of the cup."

"You?"

"Yes."

"When did that happen?"

"Since I last saw you."

"Indeed! I am sorry to hear you say so. But how was it?--tell me."

"You know, that as a young physician, I shall have to struggle on in
this city for years before I can rise to any degree of distinction,
unless aided by some fortunate circumstance, that shall be as a
stepping-stone upon which to elevate me, and enable me to gain the
public eye. I am conscious that I have mastered thoroughly the
principles of my profession--and that, in regard to surgery,
particularly, I possess a skill not surpassed by many who have
handled the knife for years. Of this fact, my surgical teacher, who
is my warm friend, is fully aware. At every important case that he
has, I am desired to be present, and assist in the operation, and
once or twice, where there were no friends of the patient to object,
I have been permitted to perform the operation myself, and always
with success. In this department of my profession, I feel great
confidence in myself--and it is that part of it, in which I take the
most interest."

"And in which, I doubt not, you will one day be distinguished."

"I trust so; and yet, things look dark enough just now. But to go
on. A few days ago, I dined with some friends. After dinner, the
bottle was circulated pretty freely, and I drank as freely as the
rest, but was not aware of having taken enough to produce upon me
any visible effects. It was about an hour after the table had been
cleared for the wine, that an unusually loud ringing of the
door-bell attracted our attention. In a few moments after, I heard a
voice asking, in hurried tones, for Doctor Lane. Going down at once
to the hall, I found old Mr. Camper there, the rich merchant, in a
state of great agitation.

"'Doctor,' said he, grasping my arm,--'a most terrible accident has
happened to my daughter!--thrown from a carriage!--My physician
cannot be found, and as I have often heard your skill warmly alluded
to by him, I desire your instant attendance. My carriage is at the
door--Come along with me, quickly.'

"Catching up my hat, I attended him at once, and during our rapid
drive to his princely residence, learned that his only daughter had
been thrown from a carriage, and dreadfully injured; but in what
way, could not ascertain. Unaccountably to myself, I found my mind
all in confusion,--and, strange, unprofessional omission! forgot to
request that I be driven first to my office for my case of
instruments. We had not proceeded half the distance to Mr. Camper's
residence, before I noticed that the old man became silent, and that
his eye was fixed upon me with a steady, scrutinizing gaze. This
added to the confusion of mind which I felt. At length the carriage
stopped, and I accompanied Mr. Camper to his daughter's chamber,
hurriedly, and in silence. As I paused by the bed upon which she
lay, I again noticed that he was regarding me with a steady
searching look, and an expression of face that I did not like, and
could not understand.

"I proceeded, however, at once, to examine the condition of my
patient, who lay in a kind of stupor. There was a deep gash on the
side of her face, from which the blood had issued profusely. By the
aid of warm-water, I soon cleared the wound from a mass of
coagulated blood that had collected around it, and was glad to find
that it was not a serious one. I then proceeded to examine if there
were any fractures. All this time my hands were unsteady, my face
burned, and my mind was confused. _I was conscious that I had taken
too much wine._

"'There is no apparent injury here,' I at length said, after
examining the arms and chest. 'She is probably only stunned by the
concussion.'

"'But she could not stand on her feet when first lifted after the
fall, and fainted immediately upon attempting to sustain her own
weight,' Mr. Camper replied.

"I then made further examination, and found sad indications of her
fall, in a fractured patella. The knee was, however, so swollen,
that I could not ascertain the nature, nor extent of the fracture.

"'What do you find the matter there, doctor?' Mr. Camper asked,
after I had finished my examination.

"'A very serious injury, sir, I am sorry to say,' was my reply.

"'Of what nature?' was his somewhat stern inquiry.

"'Her knee-pan is fractured, sir; but so much swollen, that I
cannot, now, fully ascertain the extent of the injury.'"

"Henry!" cried the old man in a quick, eager tone to an attendant,
"go again for doctor L--; and if he is not in, go for doctor
R--; and if you cannot find him, call on doctor T--, and ask him
to come instantly."

The attendant hurriedly departed, when Mr. Camper turned slowly
towards me, with a mingled expression of anger, pain, and contempt,
upon his face, and said, in a stern voice,

"'Go home young man! and quit drinking wine, or quit the profession!
You are in no fit state to undertake a case like this.'

"It came upon me like a peal of thunder from an unclouded summer
sky. It was the knell of newly-awakened hopes--the darkening of
newly-opening prospects. Silently I turned away under the cutting
rebuke, and left the house."

"Really, that was most unfortunate!" his friend Everett remarked,
with earnest sympathy.

"Could anything have been more unfortunate, or more mortifying. Her
case was one that I fully understood; and could have treated
successfully. It would have brought me into contact with the family
for six months, or more, and the _eclat_ which I should have derived
from the case, would have given me a prominence as a young surgeon,
that I am afraid the fact of my losing the case under such
mortifying circumstances, will prevent me ever attaining in this
city."

"Really, Harvey, I do feel exceedingly pained at what you have told
me. Confound this wine! I believe it does more harm than good."

"Too free an indulgence of it does, no doubt. Our error has lain in
this. We must be more prudent in future."

"Suppose we swear off for ever from touching it."

"No, I will not do that. Wine is good in its place, and I shall
continue to use it, but more moderately. A physician never knows the
moment he may be called upon, and should, therefore, always be in a
state to exercise a clear head and a steady hand."

"Certainly, we have both of us had lessons not soon to be
forgotten," was the reply; and then the two young men separated.

Two weeks from the day this conversation took place, doctor Lane and
his friend James Everett met at a supper-party, where all kinds of
liquors were introduced, and every kind of inducement held out for
the company to drink freely. Both of the young men soon forgot their
resolutions to be guarded in respect to the use of wine. As the
first few glasses began to take effect, in an elevation of spirits,
each felt a kind of pride in the thought that he could bear as much
as any one there, and not show signs of intoxication.

By eleven o'clock, there was not one at the table who was not drunk
enough to be foolish. The rational and intelligent conversation that
had been introduced early in the evening, had long since given place
to the obscene jest--the vulgar story--or the bacchanalian song.
Gayest of the gay were our young men, who had already, one would
think, received sufficient lessons of prudence and temperance.

"Take care, James!" cried Lane, across the table to his friend
Everett, familiarly, late in the evening. "You are pouring the wine
on the table, instead of in your glass."

"You are beginning to see double," was Everett's reply, lifting his
head with a slight drunken air, and throwing a half-angry glance
upon his friend.

"That is more than you can do," was the retort, with a meaning toss
of the head.

"I don't understand you," Everett said, pausing with the decanter
still in his hand, and eyeing his friend, steadily.

"Don't you, indeed! You see yourself in a state of blessed
singleness--ha! Do you take?"

"Look here, James,--you are my friend. But there are things that I
will not allow even a friend to utter. So take care now!"

"Ha! ha! There comes the raw. Do I rub too hard, my boy?"

"You 're drunk, and a fool into the bargain!" was the angry retort
of Everett.

"Not so drunk as you were when you hugged and kissed Ernestine Lee!
How do you like--?"

Lane could not finish the sentence, before the decanter which
Everett had held in his hand glanced past his head with fearful
velocity, and was dashed into fragments against the wall behind him.
The instant interference of friends prevented any further acts of
violence.

It was about ten o'clock on the next morning that young doctor Lane
sat in his office, musing on the events of the previous night, of
which he had only a confused recollection, when a young man entered,
and presented a note. On opening it, he found it to be a challenge
from Everett.

"Leave me your card, and I will refer my friend to you," was his
reply, with a cold bow, as he finished reading the note. The card
was left, and the stranger, with a frigid bow in return, departed.

"Fool, fool that I have been!" ejaculated Lane, rising to his feet,
and pacing the floor of his office backwards and forwards with
hurried steps. This was continued for nearly half an hour, during
which time his countenance wore a painful and gloomy expression. At
last, pausing, and seating himself at a table, he murmured, as he
lifted a pen,

"It is too late now for vain regrets."

He then wrote a note with a hurried air, and dispatched it by an
attendant. This done, he again commenced pacing the floor of his
office, but now with slower steps, and a face expressive of sad
determination. In about twenty minutes a young man entered, saying,
as he did so--

"I'm here at a word, Harvey--and now what is this important business
which I can do for you, and for which you are going to be so
everlastingly obliged?"

"That will tell you," Lane briefly said, handing him the challenge
he had received.

The young man's face turned pale as he read the note.

"Bless me, Harvey!" he ejaculated, as he threw the paper upon the
table. "This is a serious matter, truly! Why how have you managed to
offend Everett? I always thought that you were friends of the
warmest kind."

"So we have been, until now. And at this moment, I have not an
unkind thought towards him, notwithstanding he threw a bottle of
wine at my head last night, which, had it taken effect, would have,
doubtless, killed me instantly."

"How in the world did that happen, doctor?"

"We were both flushed with wine, at the time. I said something that
I ought not to have said--something which had I been myself, I would
have cut off my right hand before I would have uttered--and it
roused him into instant passion."

"And not satisfied with throwing the bottle of wine at your head, he
now sends you a challenge?"

"Yes. And I must accept it, notwithstanding I have no angry feelings
against him; and, but for the hasty step he has now taken, would
have most willingly asked his pardon."

"That, of course, is out of the question now," the friend replied.
"But I will see his second; and endeavour, through him, to bring
about a reconciliation, if I can do so, honourably, to yourself."

"As to that," replied Lane, "I have nothing to say. If he insists
upon a meeting, I will give him the satisfaction he seeks."

It was about half an hour after, that the friend of Lane called upon
the friend of Everett. They were old acquaintances.

"You represent Everett, I believe, in this unpleasant affair between
him and doctor Lane," the latter said.

"I do," was the grave reply.

"Surely we can prevent a meeting!" the friend of Lane said, with
eagerness.

"I do not see how," was the reply.

"They were flushed with wine when the provocation occurred, and this
ought to prevent a fatal meeting. If Lane insulted Everett, it was
because he was not himself. Had he been perfectly sober, he would
never have uttered an offensive word."

"Perhaps not. But with that I have nothing to do. He has insulted my
friend, and that friend asks a meeting. He can do no less than grant
it--or prove himself a coward."

"I really cannot see the necessity that this should follow," urged
the other. "It seems to me, that it is in our power to prevent any
hostile meeting."

"How?"

"By representing to the principals in this unhappy affair, the
madness of seeking each other's lives. You can learn from Everett
what kind of an apology, if any, will satisfy him, and then I can
ascertain whether such an apology will be made."

"You can do what you please in that way," the friend of Everett
replied. "But I am not disposed to transcend my office. Besides, I
know that, as far as Everett is concerned, no apology will be
accepted. The insult was outrageous, involving a breach of
confidence, and referring to a subject of the most painful,
mortifying, and delicate nature."

"I am really sorry to hear that both you and your friend are
determined to push this matter to an issue, for I had hoped that an
adjustment of the difficulty would be easy."

"No adjustment can possibly take place. Doctor Lane must fight, or
be posted as a coward, and a scoundrel."

"He holds himself ready to give Mr. Everett all the satisfaction he
requires," was the half-indignant reply.

"Then, of course, you are prepared to name the weapons; and the time
and place of meeting?"

"I am not. For so confident did I feel that it would only be
necessary to see you to have all difficulties put in a train for
adjustment, that I did not confer upon the subject of the
preliminaries of the meeting. But I will see you again, in the
course of an hour, when I shall be ready to name them."

"If you please." And then the seconds parted.

"I am afraid this meeting will take place in spite of all that I can
do," the friend of doctor Lane said, on returning after his
interview with Everett's second. "The provocation which you gave
last night is felt to be so great, that no apology can atone for
it."

"My blood probably will,--and he can have that!" was the gloomy
reply.

A troubled silence ensued, which was at last broken by the question,

"Have you decided, doctor, upon the weapons to be used?"

"Pistols, I suppose," was the answer.

"Have you practised much?"

"Me! No. I don't know that I ever fired a pistol in my life."

"But Everett is said to be a good shot."

"So much the worse for me. That is all."

"You have the liberty of choosing some other weapon. One with which
you are familiar."

"I am familiar with no kind of deadly weapons."

"Then you will stand a poor chance, my friend; unless you name the
day of meeting next week, and practise a good deal in the meantime."

"I shall do no such thing. Do you suppose, that if I fight with
Everett, I shall try to kill him? No. I would not hurt a hair of his
head. I am no murderer!"

"Then you go out under the existence of a fatal inequality."

"I cannot help that. It is my misfortune. I did not send the
challenge."

"That is no reason why you should not make an effort to preserve
your own life."

"If we both fire at once, and both of our balls take effect, the
fact that my ball strikes him will not benefit me any. And suppose
he should be killed, and I survive, do you think I could ever know a
single hour's happiness? No--no--I choose the least of two evils. I
must fight. But I will not kill."

"In this you are determined?"

"I certainly am. I have weighed the matter well, and come to a
positive decision."

"You choose pistols, then?"

"Yes. Let the weapons be pistols."

"When shall the meeting take place?"

"Let it be to-morrow morning, at sunrise. The quicker it is over,
the better."

This determined upon, the friend went again to the second of
Everett, and completed all necessary arrangements for the duel.

It was midnight, and young doctor Lane sat alone in his chamber,
beside a table, upon which were ink and paper. He had, evidently,
made several attempts to write; and each time failed from some cause
to accomplish his task. Several sheets of paper had been written
upon, and thrown aside. Each of these bore the following words:--

"_My Dear Parents:--_When these lines are read by you, the hand
that penned them will be cold and nerveless--"

Thus far the unhappy young man could go, but no farther. Imagination
pictured too vividly the heart-stricken father who had so often
looked down upon him when a boy with pride and pleasure, and the
tender, but now agonized mother, as that appalling announcement met
their eyes.

Again, for the fifth time, he took up his pen, murmuring in a low
tone, yet with a resolute air,

"It must be done!"

He had again written the words:--

"My Dear Parents--"

When his ear caught the sound of steps, strangely familiar to his
ear, ascending the stairs, and approaching his chamber. He paused,
and listened with a heart almost stilled in its pulsations. In a
brief space, the door of his room opened, and a grey-haired, feeble
old man came slowly in.

"My father!" exclaimed Harvey, starting to his feet in
astonishment--scarcely, for the moment, being able to realize
whether it were indeed his father, or, only an apparition.

"Thank heaven! that I have found my son alive--" ejaculated the old
man, uncovering his head, and lifting his eyes upward. "O, Harvey,
my child!" he then said, with an earnest pathos, that touched the
young man's heart--"how could you so far forget us as to think even
for a single moment of the dreadful act you are preparing to
commit?"

"I had hoped to be spared this severest trial of all," the young man
said, rising and grasping the hand of his father, while the tears
sprang to his eyes. "What officious friend has taken the pains to
disturb both your peace and mine--dragging you thus away from your
home, in the vain effort to prevent an act that must take place."

"Speak not so rashly, my son! It cannot, it must not, it shall not
take place!"

"I have no power to prevent it, father."

"You are a free agent."

"Not to do a deed of dishonour,--or, rather, I am not free to suffer
dishonour."

"There is no honour in wantonly risking or taking life, Harvey."

"I insulted a friend, in the grossest manner."

"_That_ was dishonourable. But why did you insult him?"

"I was _flushed with wine_."

The old man shook his head, sadly.

"I know it was wrong, father. But it can't be helped now. Well, as I
said; I insulted him, and he has demanded satisfaction. Can I do
less than give it to him?"

"If you insulted him, you can apologize. And, from what I know of
James Everett, he will at once forgive."

"I cannot do that now, father. He threw a bottle of wine at my head,
and then precipitately challenged me. I owe at least something to
myself."

"And something, I should think, to your mother, if not to me,"
replied the old man, bitterly. "How, think you she will receive the
news of your death, if the combat should terminate fatally for you?
Or, how, if your hands should become stained with the blood of your
friend?"

"Talk not thus, father! Talk not thus!" ejaculated the young man,
rising up quickly, and beginning to pace the floor of his chamber
with hurried steps. "Is not my situation dreadful enough viewed in
any light? Then why seek to agonize my heart with what I would
gladly forget? I am already racked with tortures that can scarcely
be endured--why seek to run my cup of misery over?"

"I seek but to save you, my child," the father replied, in a voice
that suddenly became low and tremulous.

"It is a vain effort. There is but one course for me, and that is to
go on, and meet whatever consequences ensue. The result may not be
so bad as feared."

"Harvey!" old Mr. Lane said, in a voice that had somewhat regained
its steadiness of tone. "This meeting must not take place. If you
persist in going out tomorrow morning, I must take measures to
prevent it."

"And thus dishonour your son."

"All dishonour that will appertain to you, Harvey, appertains to you
now. You insulted your friend. Neither your death nor his can atone
for that offence. If reparation be truly made, it will come in some
other form."

"It is vain to urge that matter with me," was the reply to this. "I
must give James Everett the satisfaction he requires to-morrow
morning. And now, father, if I should fall, which heaven forbid for
others' sakes more than my own," and the young man's voice quivered,
"break the matter to my mother as gently as possible--tell her, that
my last thoughts were of her, and my last prayer that she might be
given strength from above to bear this heavy affliction."

It was a damp, drizzly morning, just at break of day, when Harvey
Lane, accompanied by his friend, and a young physician, entered a
close carriage, and started for the duelling-ground, which had been
selected, some four miles from the city. Two neat mahogany cases
were taken along, one containing a pair of duelling pistols, and the
other a set of surgical instruments. As these were handed in, the
eye of Lane rested upon them for a moment. They conjured up in his
mind no very pleasant thoughts. He was very pale, and silent. Nor
did his companions seem in much better condition, or much better
spirits. A rapid drive of nearly three quarters of an hour brought
them upon the ground. The other party had not yet arrived, but came
up in a few minutes afterwards. Then commenced the formal
preparations. The ground was measured off--ten paces. The seconds
prepared the deadly weapons which were to heal the honour that had
been so dreadfully wounded, and arranged all the minor provisions of
the duel.

During all this time, neither of the young men looked towards each
other, but each paced rapidly over a little space of ground,
backwards and forwards, with agitated steps--though evidently with
an effort to seem composed.

"Ready," said Lane's second, at length, close to his ear.

The young man started, and his cheek blanched to a pale hue. He had
been thinking of his father and mother. With almost the vividness of
reality had he seen them before him, and heard their earnest;
tearful pleadings with him to forbear for their sakes, if not for
his own. But he took the deadly weapon in his hand mechanically, and
moved to the position that had been assigned him. The arrangement
was, that the seconds should give the words--one--two--three--in
slow succession, and that the parties should fire as soon after
"three" was uttered, as they chose.

Their positions taken, the young men's eyes met for the first
time--and for the first time they looked again upon each other's
faces. The word one had been given, at which each raised his
pistol,--_two_ was uttered--and then another individual was
suddenly, and unexpectedly added to the party, who threw himself in
front of Harvey Lane, in range of both the deadly weapons. Turning,
then, towards Everett, he said, lifting his hat, and letting his
thin grey hairs fall about his forehead--

"We cannot spare our son, yet, James! We are growing old, and he is
our only child. If he were taken thus away from us, we should not be
able to bear it. For our sakes, then, James, if he has injured you,
forgive him."

Already had the face of his old and long-tried friend, as he met its
familiar expression, softened in some degree the feelings of
Everett, and modified the angry vindictiveness which he still
continued to cherish. The apparition of the father, and his
unexpected appeal, completely conquered him, and he threw, with a
sudden effort, his pistol away some twenty yards.

"I am satisfied!" he said, in a low tone, advancing, and taking the
old man's hand. "You have conquered the vindictive pride of a
foolish heart."

"I know that I grossly insulted you, James"--Harvey Lane said,
coming quickly forward, and offering his hand. "But would I, could I
have done it, if I had been myself?"

"No, Harvey, you could not! And I was mad and blind that I would not
see this"--Everett replied, grasping the hand of his friend. "We
were both _flushed with wine_, and that made both of us fools.
Surely, Harvey, we have had warning enough, of the evil of drinking.
Within the last two weeks, it has seriously marred our prospects in
life, and now it has brought us out here with the deliberate intent
of taking each other's lives."

"From this hour, I solemnly declare, that I will never again touch,
taste, or handle the accursed thing!" Lane said, with strong
emphasis.

"In that resolution I join you," replied Everett, with a like
earnest manner. "And let this resolution be the sealing bond of our
perpetual friendship."

"Amen!" ejaculated Harvey Lane, solemnly,--and, "Amen!" responded
the old man, fervently, lifting his eyes to Heaven.






SWEARING OFF.





"JOHN," said a sweet-faced girl, laying her hand familiarly upon the
shoulder of a young man who was seated, near a window in deep
abstraction of mind. There was something sad in her voice,--and her
countenance, though, lovely, wore an expression of pain.

"What do you want, sister?" the young man replied, without lifting
his eyes from the floor.

"You are not happy, brother."

To this, there was no reply, and an embarrassing pause of some
moments ensued.

"May I speak a word with you, brother?"--the young girl at length
said, with a tone and manner that showed her to be compelling
herself to the performance of a painful and repugnant task.

"On what subject, Alice?" the brother asked, looking up with a
doubting expression.

This question brought the colour to Alice's cheeks, and the moisture
to her eyes.

"You know what I would say, John," she at length made out to utter,
in a voice that slightly trembled.

"How should I know, sister?"

"You were not yourself last night, John."

"Alice!"

"Forgive me, brother, for what I now say," the maiden rejoined. "It
is a painful trial, indeed; and were it not that I loved you so
well--were it not that, besides you, there is no one else in the
wide world to whom I can look up, I might shrink from a sister's
duty. But I feel that it would be wrong for me not to whisper in
your ear one warning word--wrong not to try a sister's power over
you."

"I will forgive you this time, on one condition," the brother said,
in a tone of rebuke, and with a grave expression of countenance.

"What is that?" asked Alice.

"On condition that you never again, directly or indirectly, allude
to this subject. It is not in your province to do so. A sister
should not look out for her brother's faults."

A sudden gush of tears followed this cold, half-angry repulse; and
then the maiden turned slowly away and left the room.

John Barclay's anger towards his only sister, who had no one, as she
had feelingly said, in the wide world to look up to and love, but
him, subsided the moment he saw how deeply his rebuke had wounded
her. But he could not speak to her, nor recall his words--for the
subject she had introduced was one so painful and mortifying, that
he could not bear an allusion to it.

From long indulgence, the habit of drinking had become confirmed in
the young man to such a degree that he had almost ceased to resist
an inclination that was gaining a dangerous power over him. And yet
there was in his mind an abiding resolution one day to break away
from this habit. He did not intend to become a drunkard. Oh, no! The
condition of a drunkard was too low and degrading. He could never
sink to that! After awhile, he intended to "swear off," as he called
it, and be done with the seductive poison altogether; but he had not
yet been able to bring so good a resolution into present activity.
This being his state of mind--conscious of danger, and yet unwilling
to fly from that danger, he could not bear any allusion to the
subject.

Half an hour, passed in troubled thought, elapsed after this brief
interview between the brother and sister, when the young man left
the house and took his way, scarcely reflecting upon where he was
going, to one of his accustomed places of resort--a fashionable
drinking house, where every device that ingenuity could invent, was
displayed to attract custom. Splendid mirrors and pictures hung
against the walls, affecting the mind with pleasing thoughts--and
tempting to self-indulgence. There were lounges, where one might
recline at ease, while he sipped the delicious compounds the richly
furnished bar afforded, never once dreaming that a serpent lay
concealed in the cup that he held to his lips--a serpent that one
day would sting him, perhaps unto death!

"Regular as clock-work,"--said an old man, a friend of Barclay's
father, who had been dead several years, meeting the young man as he
was about to enter the attractive establishment just alluded to.

"How?" asked Barclay in a tone of enquiry.

"Six times a day, John, is too often for you to be seen going into
the same drinking-house,"--said the old man, with plain-spoken
honesty.

"You must not talk to me in that way, Mr. Gray," the other rejoined
sternly.

"My respect and regard for the father, will ever cause me to speak
plainly to the son when I think him in danger," was Mr. Gray's calm
reply.

"In danger of what, Mr. Gray?"

"In danger of--shall I utter the word in speaking o' the son of my
old friend, Mr. Barclay? Yes; in danger of--drunkenness!"

"Mr. Gray, I cannot permit any one to speak to me thus."

"Be not offended at me, John. I utter but the truth."

"I will not stand to be insulted by any one!" was the young man's
angry reply, as he turned suddenly away from his aged friend, and
entered the drinking-house. He did not go up at once to the bar, as
had been his habit, but threw himself down upon one of the lounges,
took up a newspaper, and commenced; or rather, appeared to commence
reading, though he did not, in fact, see a letter.

"What will you have, Mr. Barclay?" asked an officious attendant,
coming up, a few moments after he had entered.

"Nothing just now," was the reply, made in a low tone, while his
eyes were not lifted from the newspaper. No very pleasant
reflections were those that passed through his mind as he sat there.
At last he rose up quickly, as if a resolution, had been suddenly
formed, and left the place where clustered so many temptations, with
a hurried step.

"I want you to administer an oath," he said, entering the office of
an Alderman, a few minutes after.

"Very well, sir. I am ready," replied the Alderman. "What is its
nature?"

"I will give you the form."

"Well?"

"I, John Barclay, do solemnly swear, that for six months from this
hour, I will not taste a drop of any kind of liquor that
intoxicates."

"I wouldn't take that oath, young man," the Alderman said.

"Why not?"

"You had better go and join a temperance society. Signing the pledge
will be of as much avail."

"No--I will not sign a pledge never to drink again. I'm not going to
make a mere slave of myself. I'll swear off for six months."

"Why not swear off perpetually, then?"

"Because, as I said, I am not going to make a slave of myself. Six
months of total-abstinence will give me a control over myself that I
do not now possess."

"I very much fear, sir," urged the Alderman, notwithstanding he
perceived that the young man was growing impatient--"and you must
pardon my freedom in saying so, that you will find yourself in
error. If you are already so much the slave of drink as to feel
yourself compelled to have recourse to the solemnities of an oath to
break away from its bewitching power, depend upon it, that no
temporary expedient of this kind will be of any avail. You will, no
doubt, keep your oath religiously, but when its influence is
withdrawn, you will find the strength of an unsupported resolution
as weak as ever."

"I do not believe the position you take to be a true one," argued
young Barclay--"All I want is to get rid of present temptation, and
to be freed from present associations. Six months will place me
beyond the reach of these, and then I shall be able to do right from
an internal principle, and not from mere external restraint."

"I see the view you take, and would not urge a word against it, did
I not know so many instances of individuals who have vainly opposed
their resolutions against the power of habit. When once an appetite
for intoxicating drinks has been formed, there is only one way of
safety--that of taking a perpetual pledge of total-abstinence. That,
and that alone is the wall of sure protection. Without it, you are
exposed to temptations on every hand. The manly and determined
effort to be free will not always avail. In some weak and
unsuspecting moment, the tempter will steal quietly in, and all will
be again lost."

"It is useless, sir, to argue the point with me," Barclay replied to
this. "I will not now take the pledge--that is settled. I will take
an oath of abstinence for six months. If I can keep to it that long,
I can keep from drinking always."

Seeing that further argument would be useless, the Alderman said no
more, but proceeded to administer the oath. The young man then paid
the required fee and turned from the office in silence.

When Alice left the room in tears, stung by the cutting rebuke of
her brother, she retired to her chamber with an oppressed and aching
heart. She loved him tenderly. They were, sister and brother, alone
in the world, and, therefore, her affections clung the closer to
him. The struggle had been a hard one in bringing herself to perform
the duty which had called down upon her the anger of one for whom
she would almost have given her life; and, therefore, the result was
doubly painful, more particularly, as it had effected nothing,
apparently, towards a change in his habits.

"But perhaps it will cause him to reflect.--If so, I will cheerfully
bear his anger," was the consoling thought that passed through her
mind, after the passage of an hour, spent under the influence of
most painful feelings.

"O, if he will only be more on his guard," she went on, in
thought--"if he will only give up that habit, how glad I should be!"

Just then she heard him enter, and marked the sound of his footsteps
as he ascended to his own room, with a fluttering heart. In the
course of fifteen or twenty minutes, he went down again, and she
listened to observe if he were going out. But he entered the
parlours, and then all was, again, quiet.

For some time Alice debated with herself whether she should go down
to him or not, and make the effort to dispel the anger that she had
aroused against her; but she could not make up her mind how to act,
for she could not tell in what mood she might find him. One repulse
was as much, she felt, as she could bear. At last, however, her
feelings became so wrought up, that she determined to go down and
seek to be reconciled. Her brother's anger was more than she could
bear.

When she entered the parlours, with her usual quiet step, she found
him seated near the window, reading. He lifted his head as she came
in, and she saw at a glance that all his angry feelings were gone.
How lightly did her heart bound as she sprang forward!

"Will you forgive me, brother?" she said, laying her hand upon his
shoulder as she stood by his side, and bent her face down until her
fair cheek almost touched his own.

"Rather let me say, will you forgive me, sister?" was his reply, as
he kissed her affectionately--"for the unkind repulse I gave you,
when to say what you did must have caused you a most painful
sacrifice of feeling?"

"Painful indeed it was, brother. But it is past now and all
forgiven."

"Since then, Alice," he said, after a pause, "I have taken a solemn
oath, administered by an Alderman, not to touch any kind of
intoxicating drink for six months."

"O, I am so glad, John!" the sister said, a joyful smile lighting up
her beautiful young face. "But why did you say six months? Why not
for life?"

"Because, Alice, I do not wish to bind myself down to a kind of
perpetual slavery. I wish to be free, and act right in freedom from
a true principle of right. Six months of entire abstinence from all
kinds of liquor will destroy that appetite for it which has caused
me, of late, to seek it far too often. And then I will, as a free
man, remain free."

"I shall now be so happy again, John!" Alice said, fully satisfied
with her brother's reason.

"So you have not been happy then of late?"

"O, no, brother. Far from it."

"And has the fact of my using wine so freely been the cause of your
unhappiness?"

"Solely."

"Its effects upon me have not been so visible as often to attract
your attention, Alice?"

"O, yes, they have. Scarcely a day has gone by for three or four
months past, that I could not see that your mind was obscured, and
often your actions sensibly affected."

"I did not dream that it was so, Alice.'

"Are you not sensible, that at Mr. Weston's, last night you were by
no means yourself?"

"Yes, Alice, I am sensible of that, and deeply has it mortified me.
I was suffering acutely from the recollection of the exposure which
I made of myself on that occasion, especially before Helen, when you
alluded to the subject. That was the reason that I could not bear
your allusion to it. But tell me, Alice, did you perceive that my
situation attracted Helen's attention particularly?"

"Yes. She noticed, evidently, that you were not as you ought to have
been."

"How did it affect her, Alice?" asked the young man.

"She seemed much pained, and, I thought, mortified."

"Mortified?"

"Yes."

A pause of some moments ensued, when Barclay asked, in a tone of
interest,

"Do you think it has prejudiced her against me?"

"It has evidently pained her very much, but I do not think that it
has created in her mind any prejudice against you."

"From what do you infer this, Alice?"

"From the fact, that, while we were alone in her chamber, on my
going up stairs to put on my bonnet and shawl, she said to me, and
her eyes were moist as well as my own, 'Alice, you ought to speak to
your brother, and caution him against this free indulgence in wine;
it may grow on him, unawares. If he were as near 

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