TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER I

"Yet writers say, As in the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

And writers say, As the most forward bud

Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,

Even so by love, the young and tender wit

Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud,

Losing his verdure even in the prime

And all the fair effects of future hope."

"THIS is, indeed, a very strange world, or rather I should say, there are strange men and women in it," soliloquized Kate Crochet, as she sat before a kitchen fire in Mr. Sharpman's house. "How easy some girls fall in love! Why, the look from a man, even a single look, will make some hearts flutter, but, thank my stars, it is not so with me. I begin to think I shall never love any man in this world, and yet I feel sometimes as if it would be pleasant to be loved, if I did not make any return. I suppose Mike Twattle really believes he loves me, and perhaps he does. There's no telling what to believe from what a man says. His lips may say one thing, and his heart at the same time may mean another. I sometimes wish we were all in the spiritual state, or that we had been created first into that state, for the Swedenborgians say a spirit cannot long remain a hypocrite. His or her real character will soon develop itself; for in the spiritual world a being cannot say one thing and mean another."

Thus communed this maiden with her own spirit as she sat before the kitchen fire, the labor of the day having been finished. Miss Crochet had a contemplative turn of mind, especially when her work was all done up and bed-time approached. She was a girl fair to look upon. Her form was rather large, and her waist not so small as fashionable belles in high life might desire, yet there was a symmetry about her which would please even the sculptor. Her complexion bordered closely upon the brunette, and her hair was of a very dark brown which the casual observer would consider black. Her eyes were black and very sharp and keen. Upon a full, high forehead, her dark eyebrows were distinctly penciled, and being somewhat arched, they gave her rather a cunning look.

While she was meditating and musing upon human life and its many changes, Mike Twattle entered the room with his writing materials. The night was chilly, and he could not comfortably write in his little attic sleeping room without a fire, and he was not allowed to have one; if he had been, there was no fireplace. He supposed that all the members of the household had retired, and Kate with the rest. This servant of Col. Sharpman had an unaccountable itch for writing, and even dreamed of becoming an author of a novelette which he had already commenced. Twattle was some ten years older than Kate, and before he had engaged himself as a house servant to Col. Sharpman, he had taught a school one winter in a town adjacent to that in which he was born. He possessed a little smattering of education, and, living at a period when flash literature became the order of the day, and every body almost attempted to write, he flattered himself that he could write a more interesting book than many that had been published. Perhaps the fact of his having been a schoolmaster might have strengthened his confidence in his intellectual and imaginative powers. Be that as it may, Mike Twattle really indulged the hope of not only becoming an author, but also of creating a sensation in the world. As he entered the room, Kate turned her black eyes upon him and smiled. He stood near the door through which he entered, as motionless as a statue. He was surprised to find Kate up, and his thoughts for the moment were scattered even beyond his control.

There might have been, and there probably were two causes for his being thus motionless and staring. He had been writing in his chamber until he shivered with the cold, for all his most sanguine hopes of becoming an author could not shield him from the cold air in his room, nor make him insensible to its chills. Being thus chilled, he was nervous, and any little surprise would trouble him more at that time than at any other. Besides that, the sight of the buxom, good-looking Kate, always made him feel more or less sensitive. And now that he saw her so late in the evening, sitting and musing by the almost burnt-out fire, with her dark hair let loose from its fastenings, and falling in rich clusters over her neck and shoulders, his mind and nerves received quite a shock. That very evening he had been dreaming over the heroine for his new work, but he felt, when his eyes fell on Kate, that his imagination was totally incapable of conjuring up so fair a damsel as then sat before him. For the moment he seriously felt as if Nature had done more to perfect a woman, than his powers of imagination could do, although he had the universe to roam over. Thus he stood unconscious of the time that passed, while Kate warmed her feet and smiled. He thought he had never seen Kate Crochet when she looked so lovely as she did at that moment. And she had sense or vanity enough to believe that the disheveled state of her hair made some strange impressions upon this quondam pedagogue. She had studied Mike's nature and disposition pretty thoroughly, and she knew he was a very imaginative creature, especially since he had commenced authorship. Kate herself was somewhat of a dreamer when left to her own musings.

"Why, Mike, do you stand there like a statue?" she asked, smiling, and giving her hair a toss from her forehead and left eye, which was nearly covered with one of the dark clusters.

"Miss Crochet, I was not aware that you were in the room until I entered it," he replied, letting a roll of paper fall from his hand, but holding fast his pen and inkhorn. "I supposed you had retired."

"And I supposed you in bed and dreaming before this time—yes, dreaming of your forthcoming novel," she answered, while an arch smile played around her mouth, and the dimple in her chin appeared quite visible in the light of a solitary lamp which stood upon a table near where she sat.

"Now, Kate, don't bore me about my novel to-night," he said, making two measured steps toward her and then standing still again.

"Well, I won't, if you will read some of it to me from the manuscript which just fell from your hand," she replied.

Twattle was not aware that he had dropped the paper until she reminded him of it. He instantly stepped back and picked it up, looking rather disconcerted and clutching the roll somewhat nervously.

"Come, Mike, sit down at the table and let me hear the beginning of your novel," she continued. "You must have a good beginning, or the girls will not read it. A good beginning and an interesting end will make it go."

"I didn't intend that any mortal eyes should see it except my own until it was in print," he replied. "But I have a good mind to let you see it, for you can keep a secret."

Mr. Twattle, after a little more coaxing upon her part, finally sat down at the table and began to smooth out the rolled up sheets of paper. He was evidently nervous, for his hands trembled and he kept slily turning side glances upon Kate's long hair which was yet hanging in dark folds over her neck. Kate was a modest girl, but yet she had no mock modesty in the elements of her composition, and so she let her hair remain as it was before he entered the room. After some minutes had elapsed, Twattle began to read in a dry, husky voice, made so by the peculiar emotions that pressed his heart at that particular juncture. He read as follows, and Kate listened with breathless attention.

"It was a beautiful day in the month of June, just as the bright sun was sinking behind the western hills and leaving a brilliant glow upon the clear sky and a few fleecy clouds that hung about the horizon, when a finely-formed young horseman might have been seen riding a noble charger who proudly trotted along upon the southern bank of a meandering stream that came from the distant mountains, and ran through a green and delightful meadow, washing the long grass that hung over the banks and kissed its crystal waters."

"That is beautiful!" exclaimed Kate, giving her hair another toss and turning farther round. "Go on."

"I will, as soon as I have drank some water," he replied, rising and going for the cooling beverage.

He now sat down again, feeling much refreshed[Figure]

freshed by the water, and greatly encouraged by her loud approbation.

"You know, Kate, I'm a great friend to water and a deadly foe to strong drinks," he continued. "We don't fully agree upon that subject."

"Never mind about that," she replied, manifesting some impatience; "go on with your reading, I'm all impatience to hear."

He now continued his reading with a clearer, stronger voice and a better heart. Mr. Twattle never felt so well in his life as he did at that moment. He read as follows: "A little brook crossed his path, and trickled into the larger stream. His horse showed symptoms of being thirsty, so he gave him the reins and he thrust his nose into the running water. While the noble animal was thus quenching his thirst, a whip-poor-will began her evening song, the clear notes of which echoed far down the stream. Soon, another in the distance answered the first night warbler. They made sweet music, and the young horseman listened to the birds with pleasing emotions. His horse, having drank, raised his head, pricked up his ears and seemed to love the music as much as his rider did. They remained some time in that position, neither seeming disposed to pursue their journey.

"'That is sweet music and this is a lovely spot,' said the rider to himself. 'On yonder hill stands a church with its steeple pointing to the azure skies, and farther on a small and neat schoolhouse appears near a grove of sugar maples. This looks well for the morals of the people who reside in these parts. I think I shall find a public house not far distant; I hope so, for I have ridden far enough to-day. Come, my noble bay, we must leave this beautiful spot and hurry to an inn, before the curtains of night are drawn more closely around us.'

"He took up the reins in his left hand and snapped his small riding whip with his right. The charger leaped across the brook and began his wonted jog. At that moment a beautiful damsel with a small basket on her arm appeared before him in a turn of the road. She wore a sun-bonnet upon her head, and her long black hair escaped from underneath and hung over her neck and shoulders in beautiful curls. She gazed upon the horse and his rider, and a sweet smile passed over her lovely features. The young cavalier was at once struck with her beauty and her smile. His horse was reined in, and he stopped just as she was about to pass him. His speech he could not restrain, so he spoke in a mild voice and pleasant manner, and asked her how far it was to an inn. She told him less than half a mile, and began to glide away. But he could not endure the thought of having the beautiful maiden leave him without indulging in more conversation. The very sound of her voice was sweeter music to his ears than the notes of the night birds to which he had just been listening. How to continue the conversation or what to say, was the question."

Here Mr. Twattle ceased his reading, and gazed upon the lamp in a dreamy state. He was thinking seriously how he should make the dialogue between the young horseman and the fair damsel.

"Very beautiful, indeed," said Kate. "Go on, I could listen all night, I want to hear what he said to her and how she answered him."

"That is just what I want to know myself," replied Twattle.

"Why, haven't you any more written?" she asked.

"Not a line or word," he replied. "To make that dialogue is what I came to this room for. I studied some time in my cold chamber, but my ideas wouldn't flow."

"Not in dialogue, I perceive," answered Kate, smiling. "I suppose you intend to make that fine young horseman and that lovely maid true and everlasting lovers?"

"That is what I purpose to do," he answered. "But never having made love myself, I hardly know what to make them say, especially at a first meeting."

"O, you must make them talk about the pleasant evening, his horse, and the music of those strange night birds whose songs always make one feel the charms of solitude. I conclude you mean to represent your hero as falling in love at first sight, do you not?"

"I intend to make him much interested in her, if not absolutely in love, before they part," he answered. "I have not much belief in love at first sight."

"Neither have I; nor at second or even third sight," she answered. "Love is a plant that must be cultivated before it can grow and bear flowers or fruit."

"That's a capital idea!" he said, dipping his pen in the inkstand and preparing to write it down. "Wait a moment until I put your figure on paper."

She remained silent and he wrote down Kate's remark very carefully, and then read it over and over again. She was somewhat flattered by the operation, yet she manifested no signs of it to Twattle.

"There, that reads well, and I shall find a proper place for it in my book," he continued.

"It being your first, it becomes you to do your best," she said. "When your name is up as an author, you can write more carelessly. With a good name a man can lie in bed till noon, if he pleases. I conclude you will have some temperance in your book, now you have signed the pledge."

"The moral tone of the work shall be high," he answered. "Speaking of temperance reminds me of our young mistress Emily and Edwin Raymond."

"What of them?" she asked, pretending to be ignorant.

"Why, Emily has turned away Raymond on account of his drinking so much," he replied. "And more than that, she now receives the addresses of Frank Deshon. But after all, she still loves Raymond, but she is strong and ardent in the temperance cause, and so much dreads having a drunkard for a husband that she has given her first love the go-by."

"Heaven knows I should never want a drunkard for a husband, nor yet a reformed drunkard, as they call those who sign the pledge," said Kate.

"They don't call all so who sign the pledge," replied Mike. "I have signed the pledge, and so has the good Emily, and we were never drunkards."

"True, but you and she have put your names down with the drunkards; I don't believe I shall ever do that."

"Oh, Kate, you love to take a little wine occasionally," he said. "That's the reason why you don't sign. I used to drink once in a while, but I was willing to make any sacrifice for the poor drunkard and for his heart-broken wife and children."

"There, Mike, you talk just as I have heard Emily when her father lectures her for signing the pledge. If Emily goes on as she has begun, she will certainly make her father almost hate her."

"She will go on in spite of all opposition, for she feels that she is doing right. Emily is a good-hearted creature. Don't you think she has a better heart than her sister Jane has?"

"She is younger and more beautiful, but whether her heart is better or not is more than I know," replied Kate. "She used to be her father's favorite until she became a fanatic in this temperance movement, but now Jane is the favorite."

"Well, if Emily gets the ill-will of her father because she does right, then it follows that her father is in the wrong," said Mike.

"But if she could have her own way she would put out the fires of her father's distillery and destroy her father's business," replied Kate.

"Better do that than make strong drinks to destroy the souls and bodies of men and beggar their wives and children," answered Twattle.

"You're in the vein now, Mike, for writing a sermon rather than a novel," answered Kate. "Perhaps you had better write a sermon first."

"No joking," he replied, smiling, "I shall proceed with my novel."

"And that's a hint that you wish to be alone, and so I will leave you to your meditations. Mind the dialogue, Mike. Let the conversation be easy and natural. I will retire."

Kate left the room and sought her chamber. True, Mike was anxious to write, but still he was pleased with the company of Kate. He believed he loved her, and it is quite probable he did, but she never gave any hope or even encouragement that she reciprocated his affection. He had recently begun to despair of ever winning her heart. In many things they did not think alike, but that is no reason why they should not love each other, as experience and observation abundantly prove. After she retired, he dipped his pen many times into the inkhorn, but he could not bring out such a dialogue as pleased him. He labored until the city clocks told the hour of midnight, but that dialogue between the young cavalier and the lovely maiden was not born into this world that night.

CHAPTER II

The Old Distiller and his Three Daughters—The Two Rivals—How Jealousy sometimes begins—A Glance at the Characters of two Young Men—The Danger of Moderate Drinking.

COL. SHARPMAN, alluded to in the first chapter of these chronicles of city life, was a man of great wealth, which he had accumulated in distilling New England rum, as it was called. For more than thirty years he had kept the fires of his distillery burning and the streams of liquid poison running. The number of drunkards his distilled liquor had made, and the amount of human misery it had occasioned, the records of eternity can alone disclose. The Colonel was a respectable man in the judgment of the world, and exercised no little influence in the city of New York where he resided, and where he carried on his distilling business for so many years. His family consisted of three daughters, his wife having died several years previous to the commencement of our tale. His eldest daughter's name was Jane, the next Emily, and the youngest Adeline, who was about twelve years of age. His motto was, "Let every man take care of himself, and the devil take the hindmost." This was a favorite maxim of his, especially whenever the subject of Temperance was introduced in his presence or hearing. Another maxim he was much in the habit of using on such occasions was this: "If men were disposed to make fools of themselves and get drunk, it was no business of his." He was himself a great wine-drinker, and occasionally imbibed stronger potations, yet he was not considered a drunkard, neither did he so esteem himself. It is true, his daughter Emily had serious fears that he was on the way to a drunkard's grave. Her elder sister was not troubled with any such fears, for she occasionally indulged in a glass of wine herself, and often lectured Emily because she had become so deeply interested in the temperance enterprise. Frequent were their discussions upon that topic. The old distiller always took the side of his eldest daughter in such controversies. In fact he called Emily a perfect fanatic, and often told her that she would yet become an inmate of the Lunatic Asylum if she did not keep away from temperance meetings and lectures. Jane also echoed her father, and seemed to rejoice in the prospect of becoming her parent's favorite. Strange as it may seem, yet it is true, that Jane envied Emily's beauty, and that envy produced other evils in its train, so that she knew not the joys of a true sisterly affection.

Adeline, the youngest sister, was a lovely girl, and promised fair to be even more beautiful than Emily, whom she loved with all the purity and sincerity of a sister's affection. Jane did not even like Adeline, and began to envy her for two reasons; first, because she was growing more and more beautiful every month, and second, because she made Emily her favorite. Jane's disposition was becoming more morose every day, and her conversation and actions manifested it but too plainly. Emily saw this with deep regret. Her father, too, grew more and more fractious. If there was one man in the world he hated more than another, that man was a reformed drunkard. The temperance movement he reckoned one of the most fanatical demonstrations ever made by any people on the globe. He could not find words in his vocabulary strong enough to express his detestation of the movement. He had never been much addicted to the habit of swearing, but this habit increased upon him as the work of temperance progressed among the people. Many an oath did he utter against the fanatics, as he called all temperance folks, and that, too, in the presence of his daughters. Once he would not have allowed himself to use such language in their hearing, but he was so much excited with regard to persons signing the pledge of total abstinence that he lost all sense of propriety before his family, and often stormed and scolded like a madman, especially if he had been taking deep potations. The more temperance pledges were signed, and the more meetings there were held for that purpose, the more wine would he guzzle down, and the more would he rave.

These demonstrations greatly troubled Emily, and even Adeline, young as she was, could not help feeling much grief, while Jane seemed to think it was all right on the part of her father, and even encouraged him in his course of conduct, which her sisters so much regretted. Jane was by no means fortunate in love affairs, for she never had but one offer, and that was from a burly rowdy, whose character would not bear the least scrutiny. His father was rich, and the son moved in the higher circles of fashion, except when he happened to mingle with the lower orders of society, or with gamblers and blacklegs, whose society he courted more than he did that of the virtuous and good. He addressed Jane in the character of a suitor for some three or four years, and she expected to become his wife. How much she loved him was only known to herself. One thing is certain, that when he died of delirium tremens, she did not waste away in grief, but continued to increase in corpulency. Emily always thought that the death of this young man was a blessing to her sister; yet she never said so. She very seldom alluded to him or to the manner of his exit from this world. There were many good reasons for this silence on the part of the good Emily, and some very peculiar ones. She had been engaged to an intemperate young man herself. True, he had but a single sin, that of intemperance. In every other respect he was a good person, a kind son, a loving brother, and an honest, sincere lover. As the reader has already learned from the conversation of the servants of Col. Sharpman, this young man was Edwin Raymond. At quite an early period of his life he formed an attachment to Emily, and she warmly reciprocated his love. The old distiller was never very well pleased with his daughter's choice, still he did not absolutely forbid the young man's visits to his house. Emily always knew that he was in the habit of occasionally drinking, and often warned him of the dangers in his path, but she did not fully appreciate all these dangers until she became more enlightened upon the subject of temperance and more zealous in its cause, in consequence of the new light she had received. After she had enrolled her name among the reformed drunkards, and heard them describe their emotions, struggles and trials, and portray in vivid colors the dangers that surrounded even moderate drinkers, she began to open her eyes upon her lover, and see more clearly his true state and condition. Besides all this, Edwin Raymond's habit of drinking, in spite of her remonstrances, continued to increase until she saw him a drunkard. Then came the severest struggles of all she had suffered. She warned, entreated and pressed him by every consideration which love could urge, to abandon his cups and sign the pledge, but the serpent appetite lay coiled in his stomach, and he could not or would not abstain. At last, giving up all hope of his reformation, she discarded him, and through the urgent request of her father she received the attentions of Frank Deshon, whose character, together with that of her first lover, will appear more fully in the course of our narrative.

After she had turned away young Raymond he plunged more deeply into the vortex of intemperance. While Deshon was addressing her as a lover, she continually thought of Edwin, and prayed for his reformation, yes, in secret, this good girl prayed for him. His reformation was the last thought which passed her mind before she slept, and the first when she awoke in the morning. Frank was all the time jealous that she did not love him so much as she once loved Raymond, but he was not aware how deeply she felt for him, and how anxiously she desired his reformation. Raymond had become grossly intemperate, insomuch that Deshon had ceased to fear him as a rival, still he wished he would die or remove to some other city. As many drunkards who had sunk as low as Raymond had reformed and become sober, industrious men, Frank sometimes feared that Edwin might possibly sign the pledge. This fear somewhat troubled and made him urge his suit to Emily with the greater zeal. He very well knew, or had strong reasons to believe, that if Edwin Raymond wrote his name to the pledge, he would keep it inviolate.

Before Edwin Raymond became the accepted lover of Emily, Deshon was smitten with her charms and offered himself to her, but he was refused. Soon after he was thus rejected, Edwin was accepted by the beautiful maiden, so that he had long hated him. He and Edwin had often met at drinking saloons before the latter was discarded by Emily. Edwin never knew that Frank had addressed Emily in the character of a lover, therefore he bore no particular malice toward him until after he was compelled to abandon his visits to Emily, and Frank had stepped into his place. Since that time he was not very friendly toward his rival. Frank used to be in the habit of drinking with Edwin, and of treating him on every convenient occasion, but the latter knew not the motives that prompted such apparent liberality on the part of Deshon, whose greatest desire was to sink Edwin deeper and deeper in degradation. The lower Edwin sank in the vice of intemperance, the brighter grew Frank's hopes that he might eventually become the accepted suitor of the distiller's beautiful daughter. Thus this vile, unprincipled young man proceeded until his hopes were realized and he occupied the place his former rival had filled. Thus matters stood at the commencement of our story. Frank Deshon had not become a drunkard in the common acceptation of that term, yet he sometimes became intoxicated with his boon companions. Even Edwin had seen him drunk on several occasions, but he did not think much of that since he got drunk so often. In truth, Frank appeared to him quite temperate, especially when he contrasted his own habits of intoxication with those of his rival. His mind was so beclouded by the fumes of alcohol that a person appeared quite temperate who didn't become intoxicated almost every day and evening. Edwin's mind was darkened and needed light, that he might not only see the dangers that beset his own path, but also perceive those which surrounded others who were not so far gone as himself. Such a light this young man greatly needed, and such a light even moderate drinkers need. They may be disgusted with the low drunkard and turn away from and despise him, while they are traveling the same ground he has trodden before them. All seems well to those who take but moderate potations. Like the boatman on a pleasant river, sailing down a moderate current and gazing upon the green and beautiful banks of the stream, they believe all is well with them, and even pity, if not absolutely despise, the poor sot who has debased his character, ruined his earthly substance and beggared his wife and children. The boatman aforesaid feels safe although the rapidity of the current increases. He has confidence in the strength of his arms and in the length of his oars, and can turn his boat to the shore at any time he pleases. Thus he sails along and his boat glides smoothly down the current, which increases much faster than he is aware of. He knows, or has been told by others who have navigated this stream, that a dangerous cataract lies below, but he fears no such danger, because he feels confident that he can push his boat to the bank at any moment when the necessity for such a movement becomes urgent. He glides along, and as the current becomes more rapid his pleasing emotions increase. Now he begins to hear the roaring of the cataract in the distance; he looks toward the banks, they are not far from him, and his boat glides along like a thing of life, without any muscular effort of his own. "Oh," he says, taking up his oars and placing them where they ought to be, "I will go a little farther, I'm not afraid, my arms are strong, my skill unquestioned and my boat light. I can reach the shore even in sight of the cataract which now is heard in deafening accents. It is time for me now to pull for the shore," he continues, seizing his oars and plying them with all his might. He looks toward the precipice, over which the water is tumbling in wildest fury, and then gazes upon the bank toward which he is urging his boat. But the current has become stronger than his arms, and his boat is carried faster toward the cataract than he can urge it toward the shore. He pulls for his life, and now begins to see the danger before him. But it is too late! He did not begin soon enough to turn his boat to the shore. His strength cannot master the current which every moment grows more fearfully rapid. Now his boat is trembling upon the very verge of the waterfall, his nerves become unstrung, his oars drop from his grasp, his brain reels, his boat dips, and is carried furiously down into the whirlpool below! All is lost! A few minutes before how pleasantly he felt in sailing down that beautiful stream, and in gazing upon the flowers that bloomed upon its banks! So it is with many a moderate drinker. They cannot see the dangers that threaten them till it is too late to escape them. They may be told a fearful and dangerous precipice cipice lies in the path they are treading; they may even have slight glimpses of it, yet they feel confident in their own strength and skill to avoid it. But alas! how many pass on and are ruined! They don't begin to turn out soon enough, but wait until they ascend its giddy heights, lose their balance and self-control, and at last plunge over and are dashed in pieces. Let it be forever remembered that he who now drinks even moderately may fall at last into a drunkard's grave, while the total abstinence man can never reach such a tragical end, or fall into such a fearful place.

It was late in the evening, and Col. Sharpman had been drinking wine rather freely. Major Cantwell had passed the evening with the old distiller and Jane, his eldest daughter. The other two sisters were at a temperance meeting, but the father did not know it. Major Cantwell had lost his property, and was endeavoring to retrieve his situation by forming an alliance with the fat and wine-drinking Jane, but she rejected his addresses and yet hoped to win the heart of a younger man; besides, in other respects, the Major was not exactly suited to her age. He was exceedingly nice and particular in all his movements even to a fault, and Jane was rather the reverse of that, and did not like to subject herself to such extreme niceties. The Major was not an intemperate man, yet he was a moderate drinker, and that evening he took deeper potations than usual, much to the gratification of the old distiller, who was always well pleased to see persons drink freely. The Major, finding he had taken rather too much of the sparkling beverage, thought it prudent to leave lest he might exhibit himself to Jane in an unfavorable light. Soon as he had taken his leave, the old distiller felt disposed to joke his daughter about her lover.

"Well, Jane, the Major began to see double before he left," said Sharpman laughing quite loud and hearty. "If I could have got one more glass down his throat, I reckon you would have been obliged to sit up with him all night."

"I'm sure I shouldn't have done any such thing," replied Jane. "It's full tedious enough to endure his company when he's sober."

"Perhaps he would not be so particularly nice when he's half seas over," said her father.

"I don't know about that," she answered. "He needn't visit here any more, thinking he can win me. I don't like him at all, and have told him so to his face."

"I suppose he has more gray hairs in his head than suit you," he said, smiling. "The Major once owned quite a good estate."

"Yes, and would like to obtain another, I conclude," she replied. "When I'm taken it must be for love and not for the money I may some day inherit."

"You're right there, Jane," said her father. "Zounds! you'll have a fine estate after I am gone. Lintend to make my will, and if your sister don't stop gadding to these temperance meetings, she will have but half a share, if she gets even that. If she could command money now, she would give thousands to these fanatics, but my hard-earned money shall not go in such a direction. Where is she this evening?"

"I don't know. She and Adeline went out early in the evening. I shouldn't wonder if they had gone to one of these meetings."

"If they have, they shall hear of it," he replied, rising and walking about the room. "It seems to me, Emily grows worse and worse every day. I understand she has prevailed upon Mike to sign the pledge."

"She has, and would like to have us all enroll our names among the drunkards. True, as you say, father, she grows more fanatical every hour in the day. She may be crazy yet, and I told her so yesterday."

The girls now entered, while the old distiller was much agitated. He continued walking for some time in silence. Emily knew a storm was brewing, for dark clouds began to gather on her father's brow, but she was not frightened. She had recently witnessed many such a domestic storm. At last he suddenly stopped in the middle of the room and confronting her, asked where she had been. She frankly told him she had been to a temperance meeting.

"Zounds and death!" he exclaimed; "a temperance meeting! Have I not often told you not to go to such places?"

"You have, dear father, but I feel as if it was my duty to attend them and encourage all to sign the pledge over whom I may have any influence."

"Sign a fiddlestick!" he said, stamping his foot and looking cross at her. "Emily, I must be master of my own household. I have often requested you to keep away from such meetings. I have commanded you, and yet you disobey my commands. Do you think it looks well for a daughter thus to disobey her father?"

"I think your request and commands are most unreasonable," replied the undaunted girl. "Suppose a father should command his child to do wrong, must that child do wrong for the sake of obeying her father's commands?"

"You're eternally arguing every question," he said. "Better leave arguments to the lawyers yers and ministers, and not go out of your sphere. When I command you to commit a crime, then it will be time enough for you to reason and argue."

"Dear father, I wish you could have heard what I did to-night," she replied.

"And that I suppose was some drunkard's experience," he said.

"It was indeed, and such an experience as none but a drunkard could relate," replied Emily. "He knew what he had suffered himself, and how much suffering he had inflicted upon his family. It was a speech that drew tears from many eyes and made the hearts of all feel that he was telling nothing but truth."

"O, fie upon such stuff!" exclaimed Jane, "it fairly makes me sick to hear you."

"If you are indisposed, sister, it would be well for you to retire," said Emily, while a pleasant smile passed over her lovely, benevolent face.

"O father, the man was very eloquent!" said the youngest sister.

"Shut up, you young temperance lecturer!" said her father.

"Don't scold Adeline, father," replied Emily. "Let everything fall on my head. I'm sure she heard nothing this evening which can injure her, but on the contrary it will do her much good."

"Do her much good!" repeated Jane in an angry tone of voice.

"Do retire, sister," said Emily; "a night's rest may calm your nerves and take the wine flush from your cheeks."

Jane would hear no more and left the room. After scolding awhile longer the old distiller also retired to sleep off the fumes of the wine he had drank. Emily and her young sister sat down and conversed upon the scene that had just been enacted. Before retiring Emily wrote in her diary many things she had heard that evening.

CHAPTER III

A Humble but Honest Home—A Widow and her Daughter—The Character of Watchmen—Almost a Death by Cold and Liquor—A Sister's Love and a Mother's Prayer—A peculiar chord touched in the Heart of a Drunkard—Hope and Despair—Joy and Sorrow.

IN a humble wooden tenement in an obscure part of the city sat the widow Raymond and her daughter Sophia. The evening had far advanced, and yet both mother and daughter were industriously plying their needles. They had not been long in this house. Mrs. Raymond found her means growing smaller every day, and the rent of the house she had previously occupied being high, she had recently removed; and now occupied a dwelling at a small rent. She had once seen better and more prosperous days. While her husband was living, the family was well provided for, and moved in not the highest, but in very respectable circles of society. Her daughter was well educated, and possessed more personal charms than usually fall to the lot of young ladies. Besides the more solid branches of an education, she had acquired considerable skill in music, so much so that she gave lessons upon the pianoforte, and thereby assisted in supporting herself and mother. Every evening found her engaged in sewing with her mother. The little property that had been left them was now nearly gone, and they had no other resources from which to gain a livelihood but giving lessons in music and working with their needles.

Once her son Edwin, of whose character and condition the reader has already had some glimpses, was a help to her, but now he was degraded by the use of strong drinks, and his usefulness destroyed. His mother and sister could have borne their poverty with true fortitude, had Edwin been what he once was. They could sustain themselves by honest industry, but they were now compelled to give food and clothing to an intemperate son and brother. His intemperate habits had almost broken the mother's heart and spread a blighting mildew over the soul of the sister, yet they hoped, but almost without reason, that he might yet break off his habits and emerge from his degradation. This hope was founded on no change in him for the better, for he still sank lower and lower, but it was a time when the spirit of reform moved upon the drunkards, and thousands came up out of the gutters, and once more embraced their families and friends. Seeing these wonderful demonstrations among that unfortunate class of society, she and her daughter hoped that Edwin might yet be found among them. True, the night of despair had settled more darkly upon their souls since Emily Sharpman had cast him off. While she continued to receive his visits, their hope was more flattering.

"Dear me," said Sophia, turning her bright blue eyes toward an old timepiece which stood on a shelf in a corner of the room. "It is almost twelve o'clock, and Edwin has not yet come home! The night is cold, and I fear he has fallen and will freeze to death!"

"I've been thinking about him for more than an hour," replied the mother, sighing and wiping a tear that had started into her eye. "What can we do?"

"O, mother, I know not," answered Sophia, seeing her mother's tear, and feeling one coming into her own eye. "I have said all I can think of to him, but he seems to heed it not. I did have some hope of him before Emily turned him away. But we can't blame her for it. I'm sure I would not marry an intemperate man."

"O, Sophia, she did perfectly right, but it was a terrible blow to Edwin," said the good mother. "I fear now he will never reform. Everything looks dark before him, and life has become a burden."

"I saw Emily yesterday, and she expressed much anxiety to have him attend some of the temperance meetings, and hear what the reformed drunkards say. She thinks there is a chance for him yet, low and degraded as he is. I told her I had often solicited him to accompany me to these meetings, but that he had always refused."

"Perhaps he might be induced to accompany her to one," said the mother, wiping a fresh flood of tears that run down her cheeks. "What did I say? Emily would not be seen with him! Strange that such a thought should have entered my mind! No, no, Emily would not, ought not, so to degrade herself."

"If she did, her father would disinherit her, and thrust her from his doors," replied Sophia; "she would do almost anything to save him, but she could not do that."

"I believe she loves him now more than she does that Deshon," said the mother.

"I've no doubt of it," answered the daughter. "Deshon must look out sharp, or she will turn him away. Edwin says Deshon drinks, and that he has seen him drunk several times."

"But he is very careful not to let her see him thus disguised," replied Mrs. Raymond. "He is more deceitful than ever Edwin was. I consider him a dangerous young man. I hope Emily will discover his real character ere she marries him."

"I hope so too," answered Sophia. "She says Deshon presses his suit with much zeal, and urges her to fix upon the day that shall unite them. The old Colonel also favors Deshon, and is ready to give his consent to the marriage at any moment. He has a great spite against Edwin."

"He never was pleased with Edwin's engagement to his daughter," said the mother. "We are not rich enough to suit him. If Edwin was the son of a rich man, old Sharpman wouldn't mind so much about his drinking."

"No, for his trade for the last thirty years has been to make drunkards," replied Sophia. "That man has more to answer for than he imagines. Year after year he has been manufacturing the liquid poison and sending it all over the world."

"Yes, daughter, he has made himself rich at the expense and misery of thousands, and if report be true, he is not so temperate himself as he might be."

"O, Emily says he has had one fit already which was caused by excessive drinking," said Sophia.

"It is often the case that he who manufactures or sells liquor becomes the victim of it," answered the mother. "It is a judgment upon such."

Voices were now heard at the door, and the sound of footsteps upon the sidewalk. Soon a loud rapping was heard, and mother and daughter were somewhat alarmed.

"Open the door, and let in your almost frozen son," said a grum voice.

"They've brought him home!" exclaimed Sophia, hastening to the door and opening it, while her mother sat as if she were frozen to her chair.

"Here is a hopeful son, drunk as an owl, and cold as an oyster," said a watchman, as he and another one bore Edwin into the house, and placed him upon the floor.

"O, heavens, he is dead!" exclaimed the agitated mother.

"Only dead drunk, and a little stiff with the cold midnight air," replied the unfeeling watchman. "A little hair of the same dog will rouse him up, I reckon. A gin cocktail would open his eyes and unloose his tongue. Do you keep such an article? A little hot sling wouldn't go much against our grain this cold night."

"We never keep any liquor in the house, sir," replied Sophia, taking off her brother's bruised hat, and running her hand over his forehead. The mother was so agitated that she had lost all command of her muscles, and sat as motionless as a statue. She was the very picture of grief and despair.

"You have quite a quantity of liquor in the house when this fellow's in it," said the other watchman, chuckling at his own wit, and staring at the trembling sister.

"I'm sorry to say there's too much truth in your remark," she said, rubbing the temples of her brother, and trying to make him open his eyes.

"He breathes, does he not?" asked the mother, in a faint, trembling voice.

"We found him breathing so hard that he snored," answered the watchman. "He'll be up in the morning dry as a contribution box, or a goose pasture. Keep him in doors, or we may be troubled with him again."

"We're greatly obliged to you, sir, for bringing him home," said Sophia.

"If we hadn't found him just when we did, he would now be as cold and lifeless as a paving stone," replied the second guardian of the night. "You had better make him some herb tea, if you've nothing stronger in the house."

"See, he begins to open his eyes and wink," said the other watchman, "he'll soon be able to speak and ask for something to drink. Get your herb drink ready, young woman, and warm his stomach."

"Put on the tea kettle," said the mother, hardly knowing what she said. "We have some peppermint in the house."

"That will do, madam, but brandy would suit his palate better," said the watchman. "He's a truant boy, and you must tie him to the bedpost at night, and not let him stray away into the low groggeries."

"Where did you find him, sir?" asked the sister.

"In Orange street, young woman," answered the burly watchman.

"Not a very fashionable location," said the other watchman.

"O, sir, it pains me to the heart to hear you talk so," she said, brushing the tears from her eyes.

"Then you must not question us," he replied. "We have all sorts of night birds to deal with, and some of your own sex too."

"I know it! I know it!" she exclaimed. "Would to Heaven it were not so!"

"Amen to that, young woman. The ladies give us watchmen more trouble oftentimes than the rougher sex. They are always angels or devils, no half way about 'em."

"Come," said his companion, "we must be on our beats again, some other poor drunkard may be down in the gutter freezing to death."

"O, heavens!" exclaimed the mother, "I hope you'll not have occasion to bring another to his almost broken-hearted mother and careworn sister!"

"These things are quite common with us, madam," said the watchman; "but I confess your looks and actions have touched my heart."

"O, sir, I shall always remember your kindness," she replied, recovering somewhat from her surprise, and bending over her still prostrate son.

"Thank you, madam," he said. "Let some reformed drunkard take your son in hand. He will know best how to doctor him. One such is worth a half dozen ministers or physicians, for he has been there himself and staid all night."

The watchmen now bid her good night and went on their rounds. It is true that their sympathies were excited before they left the house, but when they first entered it, bearing in the unfortunate Edwin, they were somewhat indifferent, and viewed the case as quite a common one. They had not been gone long ere the young man began to thaw out and recover his lost and stupefied senses. The tea kettle had been boiled and his sister was giving him some peppermint tea with a spoon. Simple as the remedy was, it seemed to revive him and restore him to consciousness. As she put the spoon to his parched and feverish lips, he gazed upon her, and the tears streamed down his bloated cheeks. Her kindness struck him to the heart. But it was not the first time that he had been thus affected. Often had she ministered to him in his distress. True, he had fallen lower that evening than she had ever known him before, yet it was not the first time she had dosed him with tea, and smoothed his brow and rubbed his temples.

"Where am I?" were the first words he uttered after he was brought into the house that night.

"With your mother and sister," replied Sophia, pressing his trembling hand. "Don't you know your sister Sophia? You're at home now, and I hope you will remain here and not go out until you are able to resist all temptations."

He gazed up into her face like one bewildered. It was some time before he could fully understand where he was or who was bending over him and smoothing his forehead.

"Don't you know my voice, Edwin?" asked his mother.

"O, yes, I hear it now and see my sister;" he replied, rising up with the aid of Sophia, and sitting upon the floor. All was silent for some time.

The sweat now stood in large drops upon his forehead and his breathing was hard. A change came over him and in that change was a struggle between his constitution and the prostration of his powers which alcohol and the cold had produced.

"Mother," he said, turning his eye upon her, "I believe you're weeping. In Heaven's name don't shed tears to-night for me. I will try to do better in the future. I know, I feel, that I have escaped a terrible death! O, the power of a rum-diseased stomach! It has controlled all my resolutions and made me weak as a child. But I feel now as if I should never drink the cursed stuff again."

"May Heaven strengthen that feeling and give you resolution to conquer the dreadful appetite within you, is your mother's prayer," she said.

"And such is your sister's prayer, dear Edwin," said the kind-hearted girl.

"I know it! I know it all, and have known it for a long time!" he exclaimed, in a voice that penetrated their inmost souls. "But this raging thirst—this fearful cry of the stomach! O, God, I cannot describe its power! It has destroyed as many of my resolutions to abandon the cup as there are hours, nay, almost minutes in the last year."

"You will not drink in the morning, will you, Edwin?" asked his mother, uncovering her face and turning her streaming eyes upon him.

"Ever since I have been sitting in this chair I have been promising myself that I would not taste a drop of liquor on the morrow," he replied.

"And do you think you will keep these promises?" inquired his sister.

"I think I shall be able to do so, but Heaven only knows," he answered.

"Keep them one day, and then you will find it more easy," she said. "I hope that you will try harder than you ever did."

"How can I try harder, when I have resolved and re-resolved, and called Heaven to witness my resolutions?" he asked. "O my dear sister, you know not the power of a rum-diseased stomach! Like the horse-leech, it continually cries for more, more! My firmest resolutions have given way to it. Even this day's morning witnessed my resolve not to drink, but I felt strangely, and thought one glass, only one, would make me feel better. I took it and did feel better. And then alas! all my promises and resolutions vanished into air!"

"But you should not have taken the first glass," said Sophia.

"I know it and will again try," he replied, while the tears ran down his cheeks.

Now all were silent and thoughtful. The thoughts that coursed through their minds, and the feelings that pressed their hearts during the space of five minutes would fill a volume, could they be written out in human language; but no mortal language can describe such thoughts and emotions. They belong to the spiritual state more than to this material world. O how that mother did pray for the reformation of her son! And what emotions pressed the heart of that good sister! O, who but the poor drunkard himself can tell what feelings pressed the soul of that young man! It was a fearful silence. They seemed to be close on the confines of another world, and almost to see behind the curtain which divides this from the other state. Who would wish to disturb such a silence! Surely they did not. The mother prayed, and occasionally a ray of hope would illumine her soul. The sister too indulged sometimes in pleasant dreams of the future. For a moment she would see her brother standing before her and smiling because he had conquered himself. His face had recovered its wonted beauty, his intellect its usual brilliancy, and his heart its habitual kindness. What a joyous prospect for that devoted sister! Alas! the ray of hope that blessed the mother's soul was followed by despair, and again the sister saw a drunken brother! Light and darkness, hope and despair alternately filled up that short space. Tears flowed from all; yes, and each heart beat with strange pulsations.

"Where had you been this evening before the watchman found you?" asked Sophia, in a low, trembling voice, which seemed to him as if it came from the land of spirits, so profound and solemn had been the silence.

He raised his head which was bowed down so that his chin rested on his bosom, and gazed upon her through his tears. He looked as if he regretted she had asked him the question, at least, she thought he looked so, and was sorry she asked it.

"You need not answer me unless you are perfectly willing," she continued. "I know you would not go to a more corrupt place than a drinking saloon, if more wicked places can be found upon earth."

"They are indeed wicked places," he answered. "They have ruined me, and filled your heart and mother's with the keenest anguish. I feel sometimes that I could suffer more than I do, if you and she could be happy. But I know my misery is the cause of yours. Would to God it could be otherwise! I would have lain out all night in the street, with no covering but the angry skies over me, and no bed but the hard cold stones; yes, I would have died, if it could add to your happiness. My keenest pangs are on your account. No matter what becomes of me if you are happy."

There was a long pause after he had finished speaking. The accents of his voice told more eloquently than his words how deeply he felt it.

"O, my dear sister and kind mother, I was wrong in saying it is no matter what becomes of me," he continued, in the same peculiar tone of voice. "You can never be happy in this world if I go down to a drunkard's grave. It is that which you most dread! And O! how I dread it too! Yes, such a grave has more terrors for me than it has for you. I will try to avoid such a doom, and make you happy!"

"These words, Edwin, make my heart leap for joy," said his mother.

"Happy, indeed, would you make us, if you avoid such a doom," said his sister, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing his forehead. He returned her kiss and pressed her to his beating heart.

"Dear sister, you asked me where I had been before the good watchmen found me freezing upon the cold pavements of the street," he said.

"I did, but you need not answer me," she replied.

"I am very willing to answer your question," he said; "I was at Sam Swiller's saloon. I had drunken some two or three glasses, and was about to go home when Frank Deshon entered."

"Frank Deshon!" replied his sister, in much surprise. "When he came I should have thought you would immediately leave that rumshop."

"I was going, but he and Swiller urged me to stay," he replied. "Frank appeared very pleasant, but then I knew he was acting the hypocrite, and yet strange to say I remained.

"O, heavens, and drank with them!" exclaimed Sophia.

"I did," he replied. "Swiller and Frank too, were very liberal, and treated me to as much as I was disposed to drink."

"I understand it all. Frank would spend any amount of money to get you drunk.

"Yes, and he wishes to keep you drunk for very good reasons," said his sister. "If you should become a sober man, he would fear you even now as a rival."

He gazed upon his sister and trembled in every muscle. He saw how much he had lost by his intemperate habits, and knew the motives which prompted Frank Deshon to pay for the liquor he drank. They appeared to him as plain as if they had been written with a sunbeam upon the azure skies.

"No more to-night!" he said. "Let me retire, and may God help me to keep the resolution which I have now formed!" They retired, and his mother and sister felt as if a chord of his heart had been touched, which might possibly lead to his reformation.

CHAPTER IV

The Walk by Moonlight—Incidents on the Way—A Street Fight—Effects of Liquor—Visit to a Drunkard's Family—Sickness, Poverty and Hunger—Deshon in a Strange Vocation.

"THE evening is quite pleasant, but the air is rather frosty," said Frank Deshon, as he and Emily Sharpman were walking one evening in Broadway. "How bright the skies are, and how brilliant the moon!"

"The air is very bracing," she replied, gazing up at the almost full moon.

"How beautiful your face looks as the clear moonbeams fall upon it," he said. "I think there is no light in which a lady's face looks so beautiful as in moonlight. There is a softness about it, and a—"

"There, there, Frank, you have spoken quite enough on that subject," replied Emily, feeling more disgusted than pleased at his fulsome compliment. "In these clear, cold nights I always think more about the sufferings of the poor than I do about moonshine; especially do I think about the poor drunkard's wife and shivering children. Don't such thoughts ever trouble you?"

"O, Emily, I think it's best to let every one look out for himself," he replied.

"A most selfish and wicked doctrine, permit me to say," she answered, disliking his answer to her question, and evincing that dislike in the tones of her voice.

"I fear, my dear, you trouble yourself too much about these drunkards," he answered, wishing to avoid the subject, and introduce some other topic.

"And I fear, Frank, that you do not think enough about them," she said. "You may not feel the pinching hand of poverty, and I may not, but the riches of this world often take wings and fly away," she answered. "We are not sure that we may not only need the sympathy but the assistance of others. The world is full of changes as well as temptations. Who knows but you may yet become a drunkard?"

"I trust you have no fears on that score, have you?" he asked, smiling.

"I have fears of every man whose feet are not planted on the rock of total abstinence," she sternly replied.

"Ah, Emily, no doubt you're sincere in your feelings and opinions, but it really seems to me that you're rather ultra," he replied.

"Why don't you say fanatical?" she asked. "That would more fully represent your meaning. I care not what you may call me, Frank, or what you may think about my temperance principles. I shall advocate them now, and always, so long as Heaven shall give me strength and reason. Now why can't you sign the pledge, and try to do all the good you can?"

"What, I?" he asked, expressing great surprise. "What, sign my name among those of the drunkards?"

"No, but among those who have been drunkards, and who never intend to be such again," she replied.

"I think that's asking a little too much of me," he said, forcing a smile upon his face which his heart did not feel.

"Perhaps you may think so, but I don't," she answered. I have many things to say to you about temperance, which I shall not say to-night. I have something to show to you that may speak more forcibly to your heart than words."

"What, pray, have you to exhibit this evening?" he asked, gazing upon her lovely face in the light of the moon, and wondering what she could mean.

"Don't be impatient," she said. "Let us walk along."

They walked down Broadway in silence, until they came to Broome street.

"We'll turn here," she said. "I think I can find the place."

"Where in the world are you going to?" he asked.

"Never mind," she replied. "Rely upon it I'm not going to a rum shop. But that, I suppose, would not surprise you; for you've seen such places before."

"Really, I shall soon begin to think you are indeed fanatical, if not absolutely beside yourself," he said. "This is no part of the city to promenade in. The next street you go to may be Orange street, for aught I know."

"Never mind about the fashionable streets to walk in to-night," she said, hurrying him along. "No one will know us, and I'm sure the angels, if they are permitted to look down from yonder azure skies, will be pleased to see us visit the abode of human poverty and wretchedness."

"The abode of human poverty and wretchedness," he repeated. "I'm very much astonished!"

"I intend to make you more so," she answered. "Come, you must go with me, for I gave you the invitation to walk out this evening." They passed on.

"Why, dear Emily," he said in a kind of coaxing tone, "we are now in Orange street."

"I'm fully aware of that fact," she replied, while an arch smile played over her face, which afforded him anything but pleasure. A smile from her generally made his heart bound with emotions of joy, but now it had an ugly look, and excited even the spirit of revenge in his breast, but that spirit he concealed as best he could. To show it in the least degree would have driven her from him forever.

"See those squalid, ragged children at yonder house!" he said, pointing to a weather-beaten dwelling, with broken windows and shattered covering. "Come, let us go back."

"More than nine chances to one those children have a drunken father, and, Heaven only knows, but they may have a drunken mother," she replied.

"Hark!" he exclaimed, suddenly stopping and listening. "There's fighting just beyond us! Yes, I see several persons gathered upon the sidewalk."

"No doubt rum is the cause," she said, urging him along. "Come let us proceed."

"Nay, you will not go farther in that direction," he said.

"They will not hurt us," she replied. I'm not afraid, although a woman, and surely a man will not shrink from such small danger. This is the very place to witness rum's doings."

"And did you come all the way here to witness such exhibitions?" he anxiously inquired.

"Not such as we now behold," she replied. We must pass on beyond those fighting men. We can take the other side of the street."

She pulled him along, and they crossed over. Soon they heard the blows, and saw two men striking each other, and struggling for the mastery, surrounded by a group of squalid men and women and ragged children. Horrid oaths were uttered by the combatants, and even the voices of boys were heard, full of curses and imprecations.

"Let 'em go it," said a boy, squaring away as if he felt he was quite a bully himself. "Go it, ye cripples. Give each other black eyes and bloody noses."

"They're so far seas over that they can't hurt each other much," said a person who wore the dress of a sailor. "Shiver my timbers, though, that was a good hit on the figure head, just between the peepers."

True enough, as the sailor said; it was a blow under which one of them staggered and fell upon the pavement. The prostrate man groaned, while the other attempted to strike him after he was down.

"Avast there, my hearties!" exclaimed the sailor, rushing upon the conquering man, and pulling him away. "Never strike when a man's down. Let him get up, and then go at him again. Perhaps he'll knock you on your beam ends, next time. Fair play's a jewel."

The sailor now attempted to raise the man up, and the boys shouted at the top of their voices, saying: "he's got it this time—that was a stunder—put him on his legs—go it," and a variety of other expressions that showed how little they cared whether the man was killed or not. It was fun for them.

"Rise, my hearty, and give him a shot between wind and water," said the sailor, while the burly rowdy who knocked his antagonist down, was leaning against a lamp post.

"I fear the man is killed," said Emily. "You had better go and help that sailor."

"I'll not risk myself in such a scrape," replied Deshon, urging her to leave the place.

The sailor could not make the man stand, although he raised him upon his feet. Some watchmen now arrived at the scene of strife, and both the combatants were hurried off. Emily and her gallant passed on.

"What a lesson such a scene ought to teach us!" said Emily. "We have now seen the sure effects of alcoholic liquors. Those men may be the fathers of families, and perhaps once were industrious and respectable. Don't you think signing "the pledge is a good thing?"

"It may be for such creatures," he replied, "but Heaven forbid that I should associate with them!"

"O, surely, Frank, you would associate with them, if by so doing you could make them sober men, kind husbands and good fathers, would you not?" she asked.

"I wish, Emily, you would not ask such questions," he replied, impatiently. "Do let us leave this street and go home."

"Not yet, Frank," she replied. "What number is the house we are passing? Can you see? Stop a moment, I can tell."

They halted, and she examined the door of an old shabby looking house, and ascertained the number by the light of the moon.

"We are not quite far enough yet," she said.

"What are you trying to find?" he asked very anxiously.

"Never mind," she answered. "We are almost to our journey's end in this direction."

"I hope so in much mercy," he replied. "I don't understand all this."

"You will soon," she said. "See that grocery we are passing. Can't you see men and even women in there drinking? I can, although the glass window is rather dingy. That is one of the low groggeries, I suppose, the places where they finish off the drunkards and prepare them for their graves. Three pennies a glass here, but many a poor fellow begun by paying a sixpence or a shilling in some splendid saloon, and finishes off at three-penny places like this. O, Frank, it is strange you do not more clearly see the terrible effects of drinking!"

"Your eyes magnify too much," he replied "You make mountains of molehills."

"I do, indeed!" she answered. "How can such scenes as we have witnessed to-night be magnified? They are even worse than we can imagine. All the sad effects of intemperance can never be seen in this world. True they disfigure the body, break the hearts o wives, starve children and clothe them in rags, but the everlasting taint they leave upon the souls of men, eternity alone can disclose My eyes magnify it, indeed! O, Frank, you mind is fearfully darkened upon this subject Would to Heaven more light might shine upon it, and reveal to you the magnitude these evils."

"Don't, Emily, preach a temperance sermon to-night," he said. "Take some other occasion."

"I fear no occasion will ever come when you will be willing to hear sermons, or even short lectures upon this subject. I have never found such an occasion yet, I frankly confess There, I believe, that is the house upon the other side of the street, according to the description I have of it. The number will tell. Let us cross over and see."

"What house?" he anxiously inquired, following her across the street.

"A house with a cellar under it in which a poor family live," she replied. "Be patient, and you will soon learn more about our mission to-night. Yes, this is the house."

They stood silent a few moments upon the stone steps that led down into a large cellar, partitioned off into several rooms, each of which formed the residence of a poor family.

"Gracious heavens!" he exclaimed in a trembling voice. "You are not going down there, are you?"

"That's my fixed purpose, and I am happy in having your company," she replied.

"I cannot descend into this subterranean hole," he said. "You must be crazy to think of such a thing!"

"I'm not crazy, but thank Heaven I'm in full possession of all my faculties," she said. "I want you to accompany me very much, but if you will not go, you can stand here as a sentinel, while I explore these subterranean abodes of human poverty and wretchedness."

"O, I can't stay here and let you leave me!" he said. "But let us go back."

"It would not be very gallant for you to suffer me to go alone, lest I might encounter some danger. However, I'm not in the least afraid, and yet I am anxious for you to accompany me. Hark! I hear the voice of some man below! He seems to be scolding!"

"Do for Heaven's sake let us leave this place!" he said, attempting to pull her away.

"Nay, nay, Frank, I must go down," she said. "Listen! I hear him again!"

"Nothing for breakfast, and the children have had no supper," repeated a grum hoarse voice below.

"True as I'm a living woman," said a female voice. "And you know I have been sick several days and unable to do the washing sent me. O God, what shall we do?"

"Why hadn't ye sent out Harriet to beg something?" he replied.

"She has been, poor girl, but she couldn't get scarcely enough for dinner," replied the woman in a voice full of trembling.

"Damnation! she don't try," he said. "Some girls not half as old as she is, can beg twice as much as she can."

"Do you hear that," asked Emily. "That man has spent his day's wages if he's not too lazy to work, and has come home drunk and cross as a bear. Come, we must go down."

He urged her to return with all the arguments he could muster, entreated her by every consideration not to go down into that cellar, but all his efforts were unavailing. She came there for the express purpose of visiting one of the families in that place, and she was determined to do it.

She descended in spite of all his remonstrances, and he could do no less than follow her. After they had reached the bottom of the steps, there was a small space into which two doors opened from within. One of these doors was ajar, and they could now hear much more distinctly the conversation than they could while standing above.

"I believe that door which is partly open leads to the room I wish to enter," whispered Emily.

"It don't lead to any one I wish to enter," replied Frank, in a subdued, trembling voice.

"Hush!" said Emily, "he's talking again! Let us hear what he says."

"You little imp, you, why hadn't you begged some cold victuals," said the man.

"I did try, father, but the folks hadn't any to-day," said a little girl, weeping.

"Hadn't any!" he repeated in an angry voice. "Why hadn't you gone somewhere else?"

"She couldn't well leave me this afternoon with the little children, for I have been quite unwell, more so than I have been at all," said the mother.

"You are always ailing!" he grumly replied.

"Mother has to work so hard when she is able," said the little girl.

"Shut up!" he exclaimed, stamping his foot upon the floor so hard that they felt the jar where they stood.

"That is awful!" whispered Emily. "What a domestic scene! O, what misery the drunkard's wife and children are compelled to suffer."

"Let us go back," said Frank.

"O, no," she said; "we must enter this abode. I am anxious that you should see enough to convince you that intemperance is a greater evil than you suppose it to be."

"I will confess it to be so, if you will retreat from this den," he said.

"We must go in," she replied, gently rapping on the door.

"Come in," said Johnson, for that was the name of the man.

Emily entered, followed by her trembling gallant, who really betrayed great cowardice.

"Does Mrs. Johnson live here?" asked Emily.

"That is my name," replied the sick woman, raising her head from a pillow, and gazing wildly upon her guests.

"O, yes, I suppose you must be the woman I came to see," said Emily, while Frank stood trembling behind her. "I've seen that little girl before; I think she told me her name was Harriet."

"Yes, marm, that is my name," said Harriet, while she was rocking an old cradle to keep a baby quiet. "This is the lady, mother, who gave me a dollar the other day, and inquired where we lived."

"She was very kind, and still more kind to come and see us," said the sick woman.

"I promised your daughter I would come some day, and so I have come this evening," said Emily. "I'm sorry to find you so much indisposed."

"I have been quite unwell to-day," she replied. "I wish we had some chairs to ask you to sit down."

"The lady may have my stool if she wants it," said Mr. Johnson, rising up, and and and leaning against the partition to keep from falling, for he was quite drunk.

"O, no, sir, keep your seat," said Emily; "I have no occasion to sit down."

Deshon gazed wildly upon that domestic scene and remained silent. The drunken husband stood leaning against the wall of the small room, his face bloated, his hair matted together, looking as if it had not felt a comb for weeks, his eyes bloodshot and his limbs trembling. Harriet, a beautiful girl about twelve years of age, was rocking an old cradle, with its head covering partially torn off, and the footboard entirely gone. In that cradle was a child six months old, and two others upon the floor, one three years old, and the other between four and five. They were boys, and bright boys, too. The younger boy, regardless of the strangers present and pressed by hunger, asked his mother for some bread. That voice sank deep into the heart of Emily.

"You shall have some bread, my little fellow," said Emily, before the mother had time to tell her hungry children there was none in the house. She was determined to save the poor woman from that pang.

"You're very kind, indeed, marm," said the wife. "I will not trouble you. We can get along through the night."

The drunken husband again sank upon his stool, and knew not whether to be mad or pleased. Strange feelings came over his soul, but the fumes of the liquor were still in his brain, darkening and obscuring his mind.

"No trouble, madam, at all," said Emily, taking some silver coins and giving them to Frank. "Here, take this and go and buy four loaves of bread at some grocery. These children must not go to bed hungry to-night."

Frank stared at her in much surprise, and so did the husband. He knew not how to act in the premises. He was completely bewildered, while his beloved Emily was calm as a summer's sky.

"There's a grocery near here, is there not?" asked Emily, addressing the sick woman, and glancing at her intoxicated husband.

"There is one but a few doors from this," replied the wife, "but I would not trouble the gentleman."

"I will go," said the husband, thinking to get a glass or two of rum as well as the loaves of bread.

A damp chill fell on the wife's heart, for she knew if he went on such an errand, he would spend a portion of the money for liquor, but she dared not speak. There was no necessity for her speaking, for Emily understood the matter quite as well as the poor wife did.

"No, no, sir, my gallant will go with pleasure," said Emily. Then turning to Frank, she continued, "Come, you must go on this errand of mercy, and Heaven will reward you, especially if you go cheerfully. Get some tea and sugar also, that the sick woman may have something to revive her spirits."

Frank hesitated, but she whispered something in his ear not audible to the others, which had the desired effect. Reluctant as he was, he started off upon the mission, leaving Emily with the drunkard and his family.

CHAPTER V

Continuation of the Visit to the Drunkard's Family—The Great Effects of Kindness upon the Body as well upon the Mind—The Amount of Good Resulting from Acts of Charity.

FRANK DESHON left that room grating his teeth in rage. He felt that his loved Emily came there on purpose to make him a waiter to a drunkard's family. But her beauty, and prospects of a large estate, controlled him, and he dared not refuse to comply with any request [Figure]

she might be disposed to make. Never had he been so degraded in his own estimation. Ascending from that dismal abode, he once more breathed the upper air, and saw the light of the moon, but he called down curses on that evening's performance. Quickly he walked along to the grocery, determined to do the business committed to his trust with all possible dispatch, and have it off his hands.

"Then that gentleman is not your husband," said Mrs. Johnson.

"O, no, dear woman," replied Emily, "I'm free yet, and may remain so for years, and perhaps for life."

"He appears to be a very fine young man," said the sick woman. "I'm sorry you sent him out on such an errand. He must think very strange of it."

"True, madam, he's not accustomed to such business," said Emily. "But then it will do him good, and make him remember the poor. Young men of our city are apt to be too thoughtless in such matters. When he comes to see your hungry children at their suppers, and how sweet food is to those whom hunger is gnawing, he may learn some good lessons, which will influence his future life."

The husband sat dosing, apparently regardless of what was said.

"I suppose you are engaged to the young man, and expect to become his wife one of these days," said the woman, sighing, as if she dreaded to have such a good girl as Emily appeared to be become the wife of any man, lest that man might become a drunkard.

Emily herself thought she read such thoughts in the sick woman's countenance.

"That will depend on circumstances," replied Emily. Then drawing nearer the woman, she continued in a low voice, which the husband could not hear, "That young man must sign the temperance pledge, and keep it, too, before I venture to become his wife."

"O, I'm glad to hear you thus talk," whispered the woman. "Young men are so reckless now-a-days that it is really dangerous to marry them. I suppose I'm too sensitive on this subject, but I warn you to beware of the moderate drinker. My husband was for years what may be called a moderate drinker, and you see what he is now. But for liquor he would be a kind husband and a good father. He never uttered an unkind word to me before rum had made him cross. And now he is sometimes very cross. He feels as if the world despised him, and therefore he hates the world. O, it is terrible to think how much intoxication has changed him! You can have no conception of the evils of rum drinking."

"Perhaps I do not feel them so sensibly as you do, but I think they are very great indeed."

The husband now raised his head a little, which had been hanging over his breast, and his face appeared as if some thoughts were struggling for utterance.

"What's all that whispering about?" he asked in a grum voice and surly manner. "Women's tongues are always busy. Whispering about me, I suppose. It is best for every body to mind their own business."

The heart of the wife sunk within her, and a cold chill crept through her veins. She was fearful her husband might be abusive to Emily.

"O, sir, we are not saying anything bad at all," replied Emily. "We are placed here in this world to do all the good we can. We are all dependent on each other, and also all dependent on Him who created and sustains us. He hears the young ravens when they cry for food, and feedeth them! And shall we be forgetful of each other's wants?"

The peculiar tones of her voice, the benevolence that beamed from her eyes, and the whole expression of her countenance, as well as the sentiments she uttered, checked the husband's feelings, which were rising from his heart to his lips, and made him feel as if he was in the presence of a holy being. He gazed upon her for a moment in a wild stare, and then his features relaxed, and his countenance became quite mild. Emily noticed the change in his bloated countenance, and rejoiced in believing that his better nature was gaining the ascendency over the mind and heart. The poor wife feared to turn her eyes toward him, for she every moment expected to hear him break out in anger and ill-feeling. All were silent during a few moments, while Emily's bright, benevolent eyes were fastened upon him.

"By heavens, you talk like a kind young lady," he said. "The people berate me, and the boys sometimes laugh at me in the streets, but you have spoken kindly."

"I'm glad you have not mistaken my feelings," she replied. "I did not come here to scold you, but to treat you kindly, and to feed your hungry children. I'm your friend."

The sick wife raised her, head from the pillow, and a thrill of joy entered her heart which she had not felt for months before. It seemed to her that moment as if Emily had been sent by an unseen power to reclaim her husband. Years of happiness were crowded into that brief space, and the sick woman felt strong enough to rise and walk about the room.

"I'm glad to see one friend in this cold world," he said.

"You have many friends," said Emily, "Many who love you yet."

"O, yes, a wife and children," replied the sick woman, in a trembling voice.

A tear started in the husband's eye, and rolled down his bloated cheek. Emily marked its progress, and her heart leaped for joy.

"True, indeed," said Emily. "They love you more than all earthly things. A man must be terribly wicked before a good wife will cease to love him, or children lose their affection for a parent."

"Your words make me feel those emotions, which once beat in my heart," he said. "O, if you knew the power of my appetite for liquor you could not blame me!"

"I do not blame you," replied Emily. "It is not my province to censure you, but to help and encourage you to conquer that appetite. You can conquer it, powerful as it is, for others have done it before you."

"I know they have," he replied. "I stood at the door of the Tabernacle, a few evenings ago, and heard a man describe my feelings exactly."

"Why did you not go in?" she asked, smiling graciously.

"I struggled to go in, but appetite was too strong for me," he answered. "While standing at the door, and once almost resolved to enter, I remembered what a young gentleman said the other evening at an oyster saloon. That turned me away to get another glass."

"What did that young gentleman, as you call him, say?" asked Emily.

"He said these temperance lecturers drink slily," answered the drunkard. "I believed it, so I went away, drank, and cursed such hypocrites. The man who sold, or rather gave me the liquor, despised these hypocrites as much as I did, and said he had sold many a temperance lecturer liquor."

"That young gentleman and that rum-seller deceived you," said Emily. "They did not speak either the words of truth or soberness."

"Then one of them may be deceiving you," he said, half smiling.

"How so?" she asked. "What mean you? Speak boldly and fear not."

"I will do so, for I like you," he replied. "The young man I just spoke of is the same who has gone after bread for my poor children. Pardon me, good woman, for what I have said. Perhaps I ought not to have said so much."

The sick wife trembled at such a revelation, and feared it might trouble Emily, but in that she was much mistaken.

"You have spoken well, my good man," said Emily, manifesting a calmness that greatly surprised Mrs. Johnson. "I'm glad no false notions of delicacy prevented you from speaking the truth boldly. The good of the temperance cause requires the truth to be spoken boldly, but calmly, on all occasions. But heaven is on the side of temperance, and may we not reasonably hope?"

"O, we will all hope!" exclaimed the wife, in a voice that thrilled through the hearts of father and children, and made Emily's beat with joyous pulsations.

"It is that which keeps the heart whole," replied Emily.

At this moment Frank Deshon entered with the articles for which he had been sent. The young man looked as if he felt ashamed of his menial office. Emily took the food from him and gave a loaf of bread to the husband.

"There, cut that and feed your children," said Emily. "When the mother is sick the father should supply her vacant place. It will do me more good to see you feed them than to do it myself."

While she was thus talking the younger of the two upon the floor ran to his father and held out both hands, asking for a piece. The elder one seemed to be more shy, and acted just as if he had often been repulsed by his drunken father. The mother lay gazing upon the scene with feelings not to be described. The husband took a jackknife from his pocket, and cut the loaf in several pieces, and gave the children some all round. When Harriet received her portion from her father's hand, she thanked him and made a very graceful courtesy. Emily smiled, and enjoyed more real pleasure for a few moments than she ever did before in the same time. Her gallant stood as motionless as a statue, and hardly dared to stir a hand or foot. Such a scene he never witnessed before, and he could not help contrasting it with the scenes he often witnessed in drinking saloons. Fortunately there were a few coals partly burnt, and some fagots, which Harriet had collected and brought in just before Emily and Frank arrived. The fire in the cook stove had burnt down, but Emily and the little girl soon rekindled it. The teakettle was boiled, and ere long Emily had the pleasure of seeing the sick woman sip a little tea, a luxury she had not tasted for weeks. Her spirits were revived by the visit of Emily, hope had illumined her heart. All the medicines in the world could not have restored her in so short a time. Her heart was sick, and pressed down by a heavy burden. The few words her husband had uttered relieved her of that burden, and gave life to every function of her system.

After feeding his family, the poor drunkard, at the urgent request of Emily, ate some bread himself. The fumes of the liquor having in some degree passed off, and his stomach recovering somewhat its natural tone, he began to feel the gnawings of hunger, and ate with a good relish. Emily also gave him some tea, which he drank with a peculiar gusto. The poor man began really to look better. This man's feelings were now widely different from what they were when he first came home that night, and the change they had undergone was plainly visible on his face. There was as great a change in him as there was in his wife, and all produced by kindness, that great panacea for many human ills.

The husband, just before Emily and Deshon left this subterranean abode, passed along and stood close beside her. Putting his mouth near her ear, he said in a voice not above a whisper: "Don't tell your young man what I said about him, for it may make him mad. I've seen him a good many times at Sam Swiller's saloon."

"You need not be alarmed," whispered Emily.

"I've seen your man drunk at Swiller's several times," he whispered. "He often goes there and gets quite high with the young fellows."

Emily started a little at such a remark from a drunkard, but she soon recovered her equilibrium and urged him to keep sober. Frank saw the whispering, but he could not catch a word. Possessing a guilty conscience himself, he at once jumped at the conclusion that he must be the subject of their secret conversation, or, at any rate, he strongly suspected such was the fact.

After Johnson had finished his whisperings with Emily, he took up his youngest child, (the youngest except the babe in the cradle,) sat down upon the stool, and seemed almost like a happy father. He had not recently trotted his children upon his knee, or caressed them in any other manner. It seemed as if rum had burnt out all parental affection. Emily sat down upon the side of the bed and spoke many encouraging words to the drunkard's wife, who was now able, and did sit up, much to the joy of her little daughter as well as of Emily, who lingered there and hated to leave such a family. At last she rose from the bedside and took about a dollar in change from her purse, (all she then had,) and gave it to the woman, who thanked her with tears of joy.

"Take that, dear madam, and purchase what you may need in the morning," she said; "if I had more I would give to you. I will see you again."

"O, you're very kind," said the woman.

"God bless you!" said the husband, in a voice choked with his strange emotions.

"Come, Frank, you must give the little girl some money to buy her a new dress with," said Emily.

"I would if I had any money with me, but I confess my purse is entirely empty this evening," he replied.

"Well, I must acknowledge we didn't come prepared for very extensive works of charity and benevolence," she replied, smiling. "Moderate drinkers are sometimes destitute of change as well as those who drink deeper."

They left the house to return home. At that moment the city clocks told the hour of midnight. One bell after another, and some of them simultaneously, rung out on the clear air, and tolled that solemn hour.

"Why, it is twelve o'clock, as I live!" exclaimed Emily. "I thought the moon had changed her position a good deal, but I did not think it was midnight."

"I knew it was, but I concluded I would not hurry you," he replied.

"In doing works of charity one seldom takes note of time," she said; "and especially if there's a deep interest felt in such deeds. I am afraid, Frank, that you did not feel so much interested in that family as I did; if you had you might not have watched the passing time so narrowly."

"I don't know who could feel such an interest but you," he replied.

"Would that you might feel even a deeper interest in such things than I am capable of feeling!" she replied. "I would have willingly tarried all night in that wretched family, if I could have done them any more good. Who knows but our visit may save that man from a drunkard's grave, restore him to his family, and make them all happy? Such a deed, if done with proper motives, is worth oceans of gold, for the gold must always remain in this world, but that work of charity will be known and felt in the world to come."

Frank was silent, only remarking that he wished she would drop the subject of temperance.

"What were you and that drunkard whispering about just before we emerged from that hole into the upper air?" he asked after a long silence.

"As you just expressed a desire to drop the subject of temperance, I will not farther trouble you by discussing it," she replied.

"But I only asked a simple question," he said, impatiently.

"I know it, but then the answer to that question would involve the subject of temperance, therefore I yield to your wishes, and withhold my answer," she replied.

He questioned her more, but she declined giving him any answer, so he was compelled to remain in ignorance so far as related to her secret conversation with Johnson. When they reached her father's house, it was nearly half-past twelve. He did not go in, but took his leave of her at the door, and went away somewhat troubled in his heart. All the members of the old distiller's family had retired except Mike Twattle, who was in the kitchen writing his novel. Mike was full of inspiration, and deeply immersed in the dialogue between the fine horseman and the lovely maiden. He had progressed that evening beyond his most sanguine hopes, and wished Kate was up to hear him read what he had written, and to make some suggestions, for he began to entertain a high opinion of her talents.

CHAPTER VI

Different Grades of Drinking Places Discussed—A Sketch of the Son of a Good Man to Prove that Splendid Saloons are More Dangerous than Low Groggeries—Character of a Rumseller—Gambling Houses.

THERE are various grades of drinking places in the commercial emporium of our country, from the splendid saloons on Broadway to the low grog holes in Orange street. The question has often been raised, Which works the greater ruin? The masses, without bestowing much thought upon the subject, very readily condemn and pronounce judgment against the low groggeries, while they will be more slow to condemn the fashionable drinking saloons, and the bars of our first class hotels. When we say the masses, we do not mean to include the lowest orders of our population ulation, the degraded, ragged, miserable drunkards, and the poorer classes who are in the habit of drinking daily, for all such may possess more light upon the subject and affect to look upon the higher order of drinking places with a kind of contempt: but we mean more the respectable portion of the community, including the higher circles and all who occasionally drink a social glass, those in fact who control public opinion, but who have not studied the groundwork of temperance. All such are ready to condemn the low groggeries, while they are not so willing to pass judgment against those higher places which they occasionally patronize. They would at once say the low grog holes do infinitely the most mischief, and would even give their votes and voices to have them put down.

There is another class of men who rigidly practice total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors, who have enlisted in the cause of Temperance with zeal and enthusiasm, studied it deeply and viewed it in all its phases, who entertain entirely different opinions upon the subject. These gentlemen are fully persuaded in their own minds that the fashionable saloon is a more dangerous place than the low groggery. In the former, they say, the drunkard is begun, in the latter he is finished off. One thing is quite certain, if public opinion was strong enough to put down fashionable drinking, the low grog holes would not long have an existence. We once heard one of the advocates against the higher class of drinking saloons, relate the following story of a young man in illustration of his principles and theory. The young man was a native of a town in Vermont. His father was a respectable farmer, and a strong friend of temperance. His mother also was a pious woman, and much engaged in the cause of total abstinence. They flattered themselves that they had brought up their son in the way he should go, instilling into his mind a love of virtue, and especially teaching him by precept and example the strictest temperance principles. We will call the son's name Edward Williams. His father concluded to send young Edward to New York city, to engage in mercantile pursuits. The father's acquaintance and friend, a sober, active business man in Pearl street, was the person with whom young Edward was engaged as clerk in a large establishment.

Weeks before he started both father and mother strongly urged him to adhere to the principles of total abstinence. The last words his mother said to him as he was about to leave on his journey to the city, were these: "Now, Edward, mind what you do when you arrive in the city. Taste not, touch not, handle not. If young men ask you to drink, refuse them always." His reply was, not to fear for him, and he went on his way. Having arrived in the city, and while on his way to the store in which he was to act, he saw an old weather-beaten building. Over the door was a sign with the word "Groceries." Upon one of the casks sat a dirty, ragged man, wearing an old flopped hat, and appearing somewhat intoxicated. This man stared at Edward as if he knew him, but the young man did not recognize him. Just as he was passing, the man approached Edward, holding out his hand, and saying, "Aint your name Edward Williams?"

The young man, surprised, answered him in the affirmative.

"Well, I knew I couldn't be mistaken," said the man, shaking Edward's hand most cordially, if not violently. "I knew ye when ye warnt knee high to a toad. How are ye? I am right glad to see ye. How's yer father and mother?"

"But, really, I don't seem to remember you," replied Edward.

"Not remember Josh Higgins!" he said, "Why, I used to work for your father! I've mowed many an acre for him, and pitched on many a load of hay, when you helped rake the scatterings. Not remember Josh Higgins! Old Josh, the gals used to call me! Bless me, you look as natral as life, and twice as handsome."

"I do remember you now," replied Edward.

"Come, go in and take something to drink for old acquaintance sake," said Higgins, pulling the young man toward the store door.

"No, no, I thank you," answered Edward, "I have no occasion to drink."

"A little good liquor won't hurt you this warm day," said Higgins. "The air aint so pure here as it is on the mountains in old Vermont."

"No, I never drink ardent spirits of any kind," replied Edward, disgusted with the idea of drinking with such a man at such a place.

"A chip of the old block, by thunder!" said Higgins. "Yer father was always a terrible tetotaller, and yer mother, too, for that matter."

Edward bid him good by, and passed on. At last he reached Broadway, and saw a gentleman standing upon the steps of a fashionable hotel whom he thought he recognized. As he approached nearer, he found the gentleman was Col. Smith, a merchant in a town adjacent to the one in which his father lived. Edward knew him very well, for he had carried produce to him often from his father's farm. Col. Smith was a very respectable man, and possessed much influence in his own town. The Colonel at once recognized young Williams, and greeted him cordially. He had just arrived to purchase his fall goods, and expressed much surprise to learn that Edward was engaged as a clerk in a store where he purchased.

"I am glad you are going to try your fortunes here," said the Colonel. "This is a great city, and presents a large field for enterprising young men. If I were young I would come here too. You are going into an excellent store. Are you acquainted with the firm?"

"I am not, but my father is," replied Edward.

"I know them well; for I have traded with them several years," said the Colonel. "Come, step in and take a glass of wine, and I will go with you and introduce you to the gentlemen."

"I have no occasion for drinking," said Edward.

"A glass of wine will do you good," said the Colonel. "Come, we must have a social glass together. I'm a friend to temperance, but a little wine can hurt no one. I believe it is wholesome in this climate. They keep the pure juice of the grape in this house. Come, walk in, I can't take no for an answer." The young man was at last persuaded by the Colonel, who proceeded to the bar, followed by the young man. Edward felt some misgivings, for he well remembered the last words of his mother, still he thought a little wine would not hurt him; beside, Colonel Smith was an influential man, and the hotel very respectable. All these things combined overcame his scruples, and their glasses were filled. Touching the brim of his glass to Edward's, the Colonel said, "Here's to your good fortune in your new situation."

"I thank you," replied Edward, quaffing his wine simultaneously with the Colonel.

THAT WAS EDWARD WILLIAMS' FIRST GLASS. He and the Colonel started for Pearl street. Edward was introduced to the merchants and received very politely. While on the way, he felt the pleasant stimulus of the wine, and thought his father and mother must be mistaken in their notions about the bad effects of a single glass. Why, it did not hurt him, but made him feel better. Yet he could not forget the last words of his mother, and the urgent lessons of his father. The first glass, however, did lessen their influence upon his mind. Drinking a glass of wine did not look so bad to him as it did before he tried the experiment. He soon became acquainted with several other clerks who had not been so strictly educated as he was. His natural business tact was good, and he soon became a favorite with his employers.

Time passed on, but not three days had gone before young Williams began to feel something of the spirit of New York life. The third evening after his arrival, he and several other clerks and fellow boarders took a stroll through the city. His companions had resided some years in the city, and had seen the elephant several times, and they were anxious to show their Vermont friend the same animal. Young Williams was bright, apt to learn, and possessed a susceptible heart. In the course of the evening, they called at a splendid saloon on Broadway, where the decanters, marble counters and sparkling liquors presented great temptations to young men. Young Williams' companions didn't think of resisting such temptations. As a matter of course, they called for various kinds of liquor, and drank it freely. Williams, however, hung back at first, and refused, but finally he was persuaded to take a glass of wine. THAT WAS HIS SECOND GLASS, and it made him feel quite happy. Before these young men had completed their round for the evening, they called at another saloon where young Williams took his third glass.

Young Williams soon progressed so far as to take a glass of brandy occasionally. And every glass he drank made him more and more forgetful of his mother's last words and his father's instructions. He made rapid progress in the drinker's path. In less than six months from the time he entered the store as clerk, he became so intemperate that his employers were compelled to turn him away. During these six months he contracted several other bad habits besides drinking. Now he was out of employment, associated with young men as bad as himself, followed drinking, gambled, and became miserable and degraded. His employers informed his father of the fact that they had turned him away on account of his drinking propensities, and advised him to take his son home. But the good father had lost all power over him, and the mother's urgent letters to him were unheeded. He would not go home, but continued his habits of dissipation. In less than one year, young Williams found a drunkard's grave!

The advocate who contends that low groggeries are not so destructive to the morals of the young men, as the more fashionable drinking saloons, might ask the candid reader who had influenced young Williams to take the first glass of wine which commenced his course of ruin? Was it the respectable Colonel Smith, or the ragged Josh Higgins? Did this man begin his career of intemperance in a low groggery or in a respectable hotel? The reader is left to answer the question, while we hasten to take up the thread of our narrative.

Samuel Swiller, yes, Colonel Swiller, as he was familiarly called, kept a splendid oyster saloon on Broadway at the time of which we write, and that was not many years past. The Colonel was a fat, jolly, companionable man, and possessed some wit withal. He was a good customer at his own bar, and set just such an example as he delighted in seeing men follow. He had been several years in this business, but his coffers were not always full. Swiller was a gambler as well as a rumseller. Sometimes he was flush with money and at other times very short, according as the wheel of fortune turned in for him or against him. This Swiller was a desperate man at heart, much more so than he was generally supposed to be. His rents were high, and his gambling practices sometimes reduced him rather low in point of funds. For a fat, jolly, companionable man, he was a very wicked one. This man was an intimate acquaintance and friend of Frank Deshon. Both were deadly enemies to temperance in all its forms. Swiller had done as much and perhaps more than any other man in reducing Edwin. Raymond to that depth of degradation in which the reader has already seen him. Frank Deshon's father was reputed to be very rich, but his real situation perhaps was not known to but very few. Old Deshon was a great speculator, and thus kept himself afloat, while he always owed more than he was really worth. Swiller was well acquainted with Frank's love matters, for the latter made the former his confidant in these affairs. Many a hearty laugh had these friends together at the expense of the unfortunate Raymond. Swiller congratulated Frank on his success with the distiller's daughter, and his prospects of marrying an heiress of no mean attraction. Frank had often boasted to his friend of Emily's beauty and accomplishments, and occasionally threw out an intimation that the distiller's money came to him in streams, and some of it would probably go away in streams. Swiller rejoiced in all this, for the young man was one of his best customers.

"We were just speaking of you," said Swiller, as Frank entered the gambling room, which Swiller kept back of his drinking saloon.

"The devil's always near when you are talking about him," said a young man, in a thick, inarticulate voice, for he was so drunk he could hardly hold up his head. A hearty laugh went round at the stale joke, and the young man who uttered it fell from his chair and keeled over. He had just been drinking.

"Frank, where have you been until this late hour?" asked Swiller. "I suppose I know and need not have asked. There's strong attraction at the old distiller's."

"That girl led me a d—1 of a jaunt tonight," said Frank, looking rather sober.

"And what was that?" asked the Colonel.

"She made me go with her into Orange street, to visit a drunkard's family, as I'm a living man," replied Frank. And then he told the whole story we have already related. "Now," added Frank, "if you hear of any half starved children belonging to a drunkard, bring 'em on and I'll feed 'em. My hand's in now."

"You'll soon become the president of some young men's charitable society," said Swiller.

Liquor was soon brought in, and all partook except the very facetious young man upon the floor. While the others were drinking and laughing, he snored and slept. At last Frank borrowed some money of Swiller and passed the rest of the night in gambling and drinking.

On separating, Swiller urged Frank to hurry his wedding, after which he would have things his own way.

CHAPTER VII

Love in the Humble Walks of Life—The Peculiar Effects of Moonlight on Him who is Aspiring to be an Author—The Sailor's Character and the Feet of His Wife—The Conspiracy—The Plot Thickens.

"IT is a lovely evening," said Mike Twattle to Kate Crochet, as they were walking one moonlit evening in Broadway. "The moon is peculiarly bright. Do you know, Kate, the beams of the pale, cold moon have a singularly pleasant effect upon my mind?"

"I was not aware that it affected your mind more singularly than it does mine, or any other person's," replied Kate, turning her large blue eyes upon him and smiling.

"It did not once, but since I have been engaged in writing my novel, the moon looks a thousand times more beautiful than it did before," he said, gazing into the liquid depths of her full, round orbs, and feeling the magic power of love.

"Well, Mike, what cause do you assign for such a change?" she asked.

"Indeed, I don't know, unless it is because I exercise the power of imagination more than I used to," he replied.

"I suppose a love-sick girl might feel peculiar charms in a bright, clear moonlight, but I didn't dream a man could be subject to such feelings," she said.

"Now, Kate, no joking," he said, pressing her arm more closely to his side and gazing upon her fair, moonlit face with much fondness. "I will be frank with you, Kate. I think that moonlight and love are closely connected. And perhaps if I had not seen and become acquainted with you, I might not have felt such charms in the moon, even although I had commenced writing a novel. Do you fully comprehend my meaning?"

The only answer Kate gave was a loud laugh, that rang out in the clear air in joyous accents. She always laughed whenever he alluded to his affection for her, but it was that kind of laugh which did not convince him that she was perfectly indifferent toward him. Neither did she intend thus to convince him, for, in spite of her own peculiar notions about love, she was conscious that she felt more and more interest in Mr. Twattle. There was a simplicity in his disposition, and a childish innocence in his manner of courting her, that made her like him, if not absolutely love him. There was an honesty too, in the elements of his composition which she believed but few men possessed.

"See!" she exclaimed. "What young man is that holding upon a lamppost?"

"I don't know, indeed, but he is drunk, I think," he replied.

"So he is," she said, as they approached him. "As I live, it is Edwin Raymond!"

"It is, indeed!" replied Twattle. "His sister told me a few days ago that she had some hopes that her brother would reform. It was the next day after he was found and carried home by the watchmen. He didn't leave the house during that day nor the next, and now see how miserable he is!"

"I'm sorry that he should make such a fool of himself," said Kate. "But he loved Emily, our young mistress, as he did his own eyes, poor fellow; I fear the world now looks dark and gloomy to him."

They were now opposite Raymond, who was keeping himself from falling by grasping the lamppost. He was quite drunk, and chilled with the night air. Twattle pitied him from the bottom of his heart. Just as he was about to speak to him, a sailor came along, half-seas over, having just enough on board to make him feel rich, and even kind-hearted, but not enough to stagger him much. The name of the sailor was Bill Stone, a good-hearted, whole-souled fellow as ever handled a rope. Before Twattle had an opportunity to speak to young Raymond, the sailor ran up to him and threw his arms round his neck.

"Ye're safe now, my hearty, when Bill Stone's grappling irons are hold of ye," said Stone. "Come weigh anchor, and go with me."

"Who are you?" muttered Edwin, letting go his hold upon the lamppost, and partially turning round.

"Bill Stone," replied the sailor. "Come, go home with me, if ye harn't a better one. My better half will give ye a warm supper and a good hammock. She don't like to see folks drink, but then she's kind to those who take too many pulls at the peak. I'm on a bit of a spree myself, but I tell her I shall sign the pledge again, and become a sober man. She has Irish blood in her veins, and is full of grit, and hates the rumsellers as she does poison, but then she's kind at heart as woman ever was. Ah, Bridget's a good mate."

"Then you have signed the pledge," said Twattle.

"To be sure I have, and mean to sign it again as soon as the moon comes round right," replied Stone.

"And do you mean to keep it?" asked Twattle.

"By all the bones in my back, I swear I will," answered Stone, still holding Edwin in his arms.

"A noble resolution," said Twattle.

"And won't I keep it and make Bridget's heart leap into her mouth for joy?" said the sailor.

"Sign the pledge!" murmured Edwin. "I wish I could sign it, but I can't."

"I thought just so," replied Bill. "But didn't I put my name to it, though!"

"God bless you!" said Edwin, throwing his arms round the sailor's neck.

Kate now spoke to Edwin, and advised him to go home with the sailor.

The kind sailor now took Edwin's arm, and they went on their way, while Twattle and Kate continued their promenade. Soon Stone had the pleasure of seeing young Raymond in the care of his mother and sister, who were anxiously thinking about him, and wishing for his return. His sister was just going out to try and find him.

"Here he is, my darling, safe and sound," said Bill to Sophia, as she ran to meet her brother. "Rather a heavy sea for him to-night, but I found him fast anchored to a lamppost, determined to keep from running upon the breakers."

"A thousand thanks for your kindness," said Sophia.

"We feel under great obligations to you," said the mother, sighing.

"O, not at all," replied Bill. "A sailor knows what distress is. I've been towed home many a time by my friends, and safely harbored in my house with Bridget and our children, and shouldn't Bill Stone do as much for another? The sailor never passes by a craft in distress. He always heaves to and lends assistance."

"I believe it," said Sophia. "I hope you will never need any such help as you have given to my brother this evening."

"I hope not, too," replied Bill. "This drinking is a bad business any way. I mean to sign the pledge again, and shiver my timbers if I break it."

The sailor did not tarry long, but left them with a promise of calling upon them again. The mother and the sister indulged a faint hope that this sailor might be the instrument in the hands of a kind Providence of saving Edwin, but such hopes had always been succeeded by despair. Bill Stone did not go directly home, for he was on a spree, his last spree as he had resolved. Being his last as he considered it, he could not think of going home quite so sober as he was then, so he called at Col. Swiller's. It was at this saloon where he broke his pledge, and Swiller was the instrument that worked such mischief with this generous-hearted sailor. In such a work he exulted and often boasted of leading Stone back to his cups again. Nothing pleases the rumseller more, than to induce persons who have signed the pledge, to violate it.

It so happened that Frank Deshon was present when Stone called at this drinking place.

As the sailor entered they greeted him most cordially, and smiled upon him most graciously, especially did Swiller thus smile.

"Another pull at your peak, old fat belly," said Stone, as he stepped up to the marble counter, and surveyed the shining decanters, so admirably arranged in front of large mirrors, that they appeared twice the number there really was.

"O, certainly, my good fellow," replied Swiller, setting down a decanter containing the sailor's favorite kind of liquor. "A fine clear evening, but the air rather cold."

"I reckon one poor fellow would have found it bitter cold before morning, if I hadn't navigated him home," replied Stone, drinking off his liquor with a smart smack of his lips.

"Who was it you thus navigated into port, Bill?" asked Deshon.

"A crazy craft, moored to a lamppost," replied the sailor. "He had lost his rudder, and so tied up. By the way, old boy, your stuff here does raise Ned, and turn up Jack!"

"It gives nature a joy, and makes the world go easy," said Swiller.

"Not for wives and children, sisters and mothers," answered Stone. "You must look out, old fat belly, for if Bridget runs across your track, she would pitch a whole broadside into you. She has the real Irish grit, and hates the rumsellers worse than the devil himself."

"O, I never mind what the women say," replied Swiller. "Their tongues are always going."

"But ye never heard Bridget's go," said Bill. "You would think a hurricane was afoul of ye, if she should see you selling me liquor."

"But who was the person you conveyed home?" asked Deshon.

"Edwin Raymond," replied Bill. "And a better fellow never put the glass to his mouth. He has an excellent mother and a lovely sister. Shiver my timbers, if I didn't pity them!"

"Raymond's a poor devil," said Deshon. "He had better be dead than alive."

"Liquor has made him a poor devil," replied Bill. But, never mind, he and I will sign the pledge one of these days"

"Come, let us have a drink all round upon that," said Deshon, calling on the liquor at his own expense.

Their glasses were filled, and were about being raised to their lips, when the sailor's wife rushed in, and struck the glass from her husband's hand, smashing it in a thousand pieces upon the floor.

"Ye didn't swallow the pison that time, Billy," she said, standing erect, and fixing her burning gaze upon the rumseller.

"That's what I call a slip between the cup and the lip," said Stone, laughing very loud, and looking at Swiller. "I told ye Bridget had real grit. Look out, or she'll rake ye fore and aft."

"Ye spalpeen!" she exclaimed, flourishing her fist, and flashing her eyes upon the rumseller. "Ye tumbler washer, ye pison dealer, ye divil incarnate, ye old swill tub! Ye ought to be put into a dark dungeon and fed on bread and water!"

"Come, Billy, let us leave this old swilltub's den," she said, locking her arm in her husband's, and leading him away. "O, ye pison dealer, ye miserable divil!"

These were her last words as she looked back upon Swiller with vengeance in her eyes, and led her husband from the place. Stone went very willingly, much to the surprise of Swiller and Deshon.

"What a hairbrained woman that is," said Swiller.

"Who knows but the devil may help that sailor to get Raymond's name upon the pledge. I have always told you that if Raymond did make up his mind to sign the pledge he would keep it."

"And suppose he does keep it?" inquired Swiller.

"Then I lose the distiller's daughter, sure as fate," replied Deshon. "She loves him even now, and if he should become sober and steady, she would turn me away and engage herself again to him in spite of her father, or all earthly power.

"That's an unpleasant consideration, truly," replied Swiller. "But I can't think there's much danger that Raymond will become sober."

"I don't know about that," answered the anxious lover. "Stranger things than his signing the pledge and becoming sober have happened in these temperance times."

"You must hurry up the wedding day," replied Swiller.

"I am doing all I can, but it is an up-hill business," said Deshon. "Now Raymond is destitute of funds, and cannot conveniently get all the liquor he wants. Here are five dollars which I wish you to inclose in a letter to him. Tell him a friend sent it to you for him. Besides, let him have all the liquor he wants, and charge it to me."

CHAPTER VIII

A Letter and Money received, and its Effects—The Temptation of a Reformed Drunkard and his power of Resistance—A Rumseller receives a Lecture—The Fortune-hunter's prospects darken.

"I WONDER who could have sent me this five dollar note in this letter?" asked Edwin Raymond of himself, as he stood near the post-office, reading a letter which he had just taken from the office and opened.

"I don't recognize the hand-writing. What particular friend have I who would send me this friendly note, and money, and conceal his name? He likes to see young men of good hearts enjoy themselves. I wonder if he is a friend or enemy to the temperance cause? Can it be Mr. Croton, the reformed drunkard, sent it to me? O, God, what a fate is mine! Shall I break this five dollar note, so kindly sent me, and purchase liquor with it? Why not carry it directly home, and give it to my kind mother and sister, who labor early and late? What joy it would give them! But, my stomach cries for liquor to-day. I must drink now—once at least, and then I may have more resolution. O! if Emily, the lovely, the lost Emily, could see and smile upon me once! But, alas! she hates a drunkard! O, my God! what horrors chill my blood!"

Almost frantic for the want of liquor, he hurried away to Swiller's saloon. Swiller had trusted him for a few glasses, and he was anxious to pay him. He had yet too much pride to let rum scores stand against him, when he had the means of paying them. Full of trembling, he entered the saloon and called for brandy.

"I will pay you for this and the other glasses," said Edwin, handing Swiller the five dollar note, with a trembling hand.

"Ah, in funds this morning?" said Swiller; "I'm glad to see it. But you need not trouble yourself about the trifle you owe me. I have told you that I was not afraid to trust you; and if I never got my pay I shouldn't cry."

"I know you have been liberal to me, but this drinking is horrible business after all," replied Edwin, feeling his nerves braced up by the glass he had taken.

"Like everything else in this world, my dear fellow," answered Swiller. "All eat or drink too much, sometimes—but that's no reason why we shouldn't drink at all. This life would be a gloomy one if we couldn't sometimes feel a little merry."

Edwin looked at the decanters as if he desired another drink.

The rumseller watched his motions and governed himself accordingly.

"Come, as you have paid up the old score, I will treat, and take a glass with you," said Swiller. "I know another glass will make you feel better. It always takes two to cut the cobwebs out of my throat in the morning."

They drank, and Swiller was unusually polite and cheerful. Edwin tarried some time, and finally took the third glass, and became quite happy, apparently.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Edwin, feeling quite smart and resolute.

"And what is that?" asked the tumbler-washer.

"I think I shall drink till this money is gone, and then quit forever," replied Edwin. A loud horse-laugh was Swiller's reply.

"I reckon you and I shall see a good old age before we quit drinking," said Swiller. "I haven't the most distant idea of depriving myself of the privilege of giving nature a gentle joy once in a while."

Edwin left the saloon, and as he did so, he met Frank Deshon coming in. They exchanged looks, but no sign of recognition was made by either. Frank would have spoken if the other had not passed him with such apparent contempt.

"Raymond feels well to-day," said Deshon, as he entered the saloon. "He passed me, and assumed a very pompous air. That five dollar note works to a charm."

"We must keep him to his cups, at all hazards," said Deshon. "The distiller's daughter fairly leads me by the nose."

"Your turn will come after marriage," answered Swiller.

Mr. Johnson, the drunkard whom Emily's visit had reformed, now entered. Deshon saw him coming, and hid himself behind the counter, for of course he did not wish for Johnson to see him in that place.

"A good day to you," said Swiller, bowing and smiling to him more politely than he ever did before.

"It is, indeed, a good day for me," replied Johnson.

"Happy to hear it," replied the rumseller; "How are your wife and children?"

"Happy and cheerful as I am," answered Johnson. "We shall have enough to eat and to wear now, and expect to remove to a house soon that's above ground."

Deshon was situated so that he could hear all that was said.

"Indeed!" answered Swiller; "You're quite prosperous then. I suppose I shall not get any more of your help. But I need it, and will pay you liberally."

"More so than you used to, I conclude, said Johnson.

"I will give you double wages," replied the wily rumseller, smiling. "I miss you much about my premises."

"Double wages!" repeated Johnson, casting his eyes upon the floor, and calculating. "Let me see—you used to give me four glasses a day, and sometimes additional ones to go home drunk with, and occasionally gave me a shilling to buy bread. Now you say you'll double my wages; that is, you will get me drunk twice as often as you used to, and occasionally give me a quarter. Do you think, Colonel, such wages would support a wife and several children?"

"Come, come, Johnson, no joking," replied Swiller. "What will you take? you shall be welcome to anything you may ask for."

"Then give me a hundred dollars—and that wouldn't be a priming to the injury you have done me, to say nothing of the thousands you're ruining every year," answered Johnson.

"Nonsense!" said Swiller; "you know I didn't mean money. Come, take a glass with me."

"I know very well you didn't mean money," said Johnson, casting upon the rumseller a severe look. "No, no, you wish me to swallow a dose of your poison—get me drunk as you have hundreds of times; distress my wife, ruin myself and starve my children. O, Swiller, you're a heartless man! Rum selling and rum drinking have made you so."

"Why, Johnson, how strangely you talk!" said Swiller, feeling somewat somewhat embarrassed.

"I do, if speaking truth is talking strangely," answered Johnson, in a firm tone of voice and decided manner. "No, Swiller, I wouldn't taste a drop of your liquor if you would give me all you're worth, or ever will be. I have put the stake down, and, God helping me, I will never take it up again."

"You'll think better of that before many days," said Swiller, smiling.

"Never! so help me, Heaven!" said Johnson; "I have signed the pledge—made myself, wife and children happy, and become a sober man. You have done me and my family great injury, but you can't injure them any more. And would to Heaven you could not injure others! I met a young man, just before I came here, staggering along the streets; I stopped him, and talked to him awhile. He told me he had just come from your place. I shall see that young man again."

"Who is he?" anxiously inquired Swiller.

"He said his name was Edwin Raymond," replied Johnson. "He is just as I was a few days ago."

"He was not drunk when he left my saloon," said Swiller.

"Perhaps not, for the last glass did not operate before he left," answered Johnson. He told me where he, his mother and sister live. I shall visit him. I'll save him if possible."

Johnson departed, and Deshon came out from his hiding place.

"O, how Emily would boast over her reformed drunkard, if she could have heard him," said Deshon; "lucky he didn't see me, because he would have at once recognized me. He's the father whose children Emily made me buy bread for! It is too bad, but I must grin and bear it for a while longer, I suppose."

"Yes, and now he means to use all his power to reform that Raymond," said Swiller.

"Matters wear an ugly look," said Deshon, walking about in much agitation. "Johnson has a strong mind, and I fear his influence. Should he induce Raymond to sign the pledge, I fear my rig would be run."

CHAPTER IX

Interview between the Reformed and Unreformed—A Sister's love and a Mother's care—a Scene in the Drunkard's Family, and Death of the Drunkard's Wife—The Emotions of an Experienced Heart.

MR. JOHNSON was as good as his promise. After he had seen Edwin Raymond he could not rest easy until he had visited him. None but a reformed drunkard could have felt such emotions for young Raymond as this poor man felt. Had he known that Edwin was once the lover of the young lady through whose instrumentality he was saved, his interest in him would have been much greater, if it were possible for it to be greater. But he knew nothing of that relationship which once existed between these young persons. Johnson was naturally a whole-souled man, and possessed more than an ordinary share of intellectual power. Before the habit of drinking had prostrated his energies and soured his mind, he was an excellent husband and a kind father. It seemed as if intemperance had never made worse havoc upon humanity than it had made upon him. Even Edwin Raymond's case was not a more melancholy one.

Johnson called early one morning at Mrs. Raymond's, believing that would be the best time to find Edwin sober. He knocked at the door, and Sophia answered the summons.

"Does a young man by the name of Edwin Raymond live here?" he asked.

"He is my brother, sir, and lives with us, but he's not yet up," she replied.

"I would like to see him this morning," he said.

She gazed upon him, and the thought struck her that he might be some officer. She trembled, and knew not what to say.

"Be not alarmed, young woman," he said. "I'm a friend to your brother. I came not to injure, but to do him good. Can I see him?"

"He's in bed, and not very well," she answered, still suspicious of Johnson.

"I dare say he's unwell," he said, "judging from the state I saw him in yesterday."

"O, sir, then you saw him yesterday, did you?" she asked, looking steadily at him.

"I did," he replied. "I have been in just such a state myself many a time, but, thank God, and the good angel whom he sent to me, I'm well enough now. I came, young woman, to induce your brother to sign the pledge."

"Heaven bless you!" she exclaimed, seizing his right hand with both of hers. "Walk in, mother will be delighted to see you."

He went in, and the daughter made known Johnson's mission to her mother.

"May heaven help you," said Mrs. Raymond. "My son is in a very bad way. Go, Sophia, and call him up."

She went softly to his chamber and awoke him. The night previous he had come home very drunk, and the morning found him feeble and trembling.

"A man below wishes to see you," she said.

"Who is he?" he asked, in a trembling voice, rising up and staring wildly at her.

"I know not, but he says he saw you yesterday, and wishes to see you this morning. O, Edwin, if he gives you good advice, do, for pity's sake, follow it. You yet have the power of being sober and industrious."

"I don't wish to see any one this morning," he replied. "I don't feel well."

And he turned over, buried his face in the pillow, and wept tears of bitter anguish. The tears started from his sister's eyes, and her voice was so choked she could not speak. She remained some time, weeping by his bedside as if her heart would break.

Sophia went down and told Johnson her brother was indisposed to see him, but Johnson was not to be refused. He quietly walked up to Edwin's room, taking some hot tea, which he had asked the mother to make. Entering the room he presented the tea, and urged him to drink it, telling him that he had himself been a drunkard, and knew its miseries.

"Many a time," continued Johnson, "have I rolled in the ditch with bloated face and trembling limbs, while my wife was crying worse than your sister now is, and my children starving for bread. But, blessed be God! I'm no longer a slave to King Alcohol!"

"O, Heaven!" groaned Edwin, turning his eyes upon the reformed drunkard in a wild stare, and again sipping his tea, "how could you escape from such tyranny?"

"Resolution! resolution!" replied Johnson. "That did the work, with Heaven's help. Yes, my friend, I resolved to be free, and here I am on the rock of total abstinence."

"You had a wife and children to help you," said Edwin.

"And you have a dear mother and a lovely sister praying for you," answered Johnson.

"I know it! I know it!" exclaimed Edwin, in broken accents, sobbing bitterly, and trembling in every joint and muscle of his frame.

"Come, will you go with me and sign the pledge?" asked Johnson.

"Not to-day, but I will sign it before many days," replied the young man.

"Will you?" asked Johnson, grasping his hands, and pressing them with a feeling that went directly to the heart of Edwin. "Then I'll not urge you to do so now, but beware of such men as Sam Swiller. Don't drink today. Make up your mind now, fully resolve that you will sign the pledge, and an unseen Power will sustain you."

Johnson remained and conversed with him a long time. As he descended the stairs the sister met him and inquired his success. He told them what had passed, and mother and sister rejoiced over the prospect of a change, and begged Johnson to continue his exertions. Johnson then said, "I wish the young lady would visit him who visited my family in their distress and killed me with her kindness. I'm sure he could not resist her persuasion."

"What young lady?" asked Sophia, gazing upon her mother, as if she imagined who she might be.

"The daughter of old Sharpman, the distiller," he replied.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed the mother.

"Can it be?" asked the sister. "What, Emily Sharpman?"

"The same," he replied. "Then you know the good girl! Perhaps she has been here to see your brother."

"O, no, no," replied Sophia, "she has not been here, but we are acquainted with her. Did you speak of her to my brother?"

"I did not, but why such anxiety?" he asked. "What means your question?"

"Edwin was once engaged to her before he became such a drunkard," she replied. "I'm glad you did not speak of her to him."

"She shall see him!" said Johnson, in a very emphatic manner.

"O, no, she's engaged to Frank Deshon, now," she replied.

"The same young man who accompanied her to my house!" he said. "Is she engaged to him? He's no temperance man I can be sworn. I've seen him drink hundreds of times. I don't believe she can fancy him, if she ever loved your brother."

"O, she did love him, and would have married him but for his terrible drinking."

"She shall love him again, as my wife does me," he said.

This reformed man soon after took his leave. The hearts of the mother and daughter were much encouraged, and some rays of hope found their way into them. It was a happy hour for Johnson, for he firmly believed he should be enabled to restore the lost young man not only to his mother and sister, but also to her who had once loved him. The reformed drunkard never sees any lions in the way. He goes ahead, and believes all things possible. When he looks back upon what his own condition once was, calls to mind his struggles, his dark and despairing hours, when scarcely a single ray of hope illumined his soul, and then reflects upon his present happy condition, he feels that any man, however low and degraded he may be, however strong his appetite for strong drink is, may be restored and became as sober as he ever was.

As Johnson passed out of the widow Raymond's house, Frank Deshon was standing upon the opposite side of the street, and looking toward the house. He saw Johnson, but the latter did not notice him. Frank's feelings were anything but pleasant and agreeable when he discovered the reformed drunkard coming from that house. He at once knew the object of his mission, and feared his power over Edwin Raymond, and well he might.

Johnson went home and related to his wife the interview he had with Raymond and with his mother and sister. She was greatly astonished when she heard that Raymond was once the accepted lover of Emily, a young lady whom she esteemed little less than an angel. Her feelings for the young drunkard became deeply interested.

"Where's Harriet?" asked Johnson, not seeing her about the house.

"I'm sure I don't know," said the wife. "She went out more than an hour ago. She ought not to be gone so long. She will probably be back soon. She may have gone to see Miss Sharpman. That young lady is very much attached to her, and would like to have her with her all the time, if it were not for the old distiller's objections."

"O, that young lady is an angel upon the earth, if ever there was one!" he said. "I don't wonder she once loved Edwin Raymond, for he's a fine young man. It seems to me I never saw a more interesting countenance than his, notwithstanding rum has made such ravages upon his person. He must be saved! And if he is, who knows but he and the good Emily may come together again? What a happy event that would be!"

"Where can Harriet be all this time?" asked Mrs. Johnson.

At that moment the little girl came running in, her countenance expressing much anxiety. "O, mother!" she exclaimed, "I have just seen a terrible drunkard, and his wife and daughter are crying!"

"Where are they?" asked her father, gazing upon his daughter's lovely face.

"In Elizabeth street," she replied. "I was passing along, and I saw a girl about as big as I am, standing on the sidewalk crying. I asked her what was the matter, and she said her father had struck her, and drove her out to beg some pennies, which he wanted to buy rum with. She said her mother was very sick; I went down into a cellar room and found her on some rags in a corner, while her husband sat trembling and cross upon a stool as far from her as he could get."

"I will go there," he replied. "You must go with me and show me the place."

They started out, and Harriet ran clear ahead of her father, she was so anxious about the poor sick woman and her drunken husband and crying daughter. As they passed along, they saw the little girl who had been driven out to beg, holding out her hand for pennies to the passers by, and looking sad indeed.

"There, father, is the girl her father struck!" said Harriet. "See, a man has just given her some pennies which will go for rum."

"O, God!" mentally exclaimed this reformed man; "what lessons I have taught my own child."

They now had reached the place, and Harriet went ahead down the dirty, broken stairs, into the subterranean abode of the poor drunkard. His wife lay in the same position as when Harriet left her, but her husband was standing near the entrance, as if he was anxious for the return of his daughter with the pennies, that he might slake his raging, burning thirst. There was scarcely an article of furniture in the room which could be sold for a sixpence. It was a most desolate scene of human poverty and wretchedness. The sick wife lay upon some old rags, fragments of bed clothes, in a corner of the room.

"Good day, my friend," said Johnson, shaking the trembling hand of the drunkard, who stared wildly and remained silent. "Your wife is sick, I understand."

"She lies there!" replied the drunkard in a voice of trembling. "What do you want here?"

"I want to do you good," replied Johnson still holding the drunkard's hand, and looking pleasantly into his face.

"Then give me some money," replied the man, "I'm not well to-day."

"I perceive you're not," said Johnson. "Rum has made you sick, as it used to me. You must drink no more and you'll soon be well."

The drunkard gazed upon Johnson in silence, not knowing whether to be mad or pleased, while little Harriet was trying to comfort the poor sick woman, who was apparently at the door of death.

"God bless ye, little angel," said the sick woman, throwing her skeleton arm around the neck of Harriet, and drawing her head toward her. "I love you, but can't stay long in this world!"

Johnson hastened to the sick woman and found she was dying with her arm around the neck of his daughter.

"O, she's very sick," said Harriet, endeavoring to release herself from the dying woman's embrace.

"She is indeed!" said Johnson, removing Harriet from her, and partially turning her over.

The woman gazed up into his face and said in a whisper, "O, no, it's not my husband! Let me die embracing this good little girl, for my daughter is not here."

"She is here," said Johnson, turning to the girl and beckoning her to her dying mother.

The little girl came to her mother, knelt down and kissed her forehead, while the father stood trembling at the other end of the room.

"Heaven bless ye, my child," whispered the dying woman, pressing her daughter to her fluttering heart. "Don't beg for your poor father more. Go somewhere, but O, where?"

"I will take care of her," said Johnson.

The dying woman gazed upon him with glazed eyes, her lips moved, but the power of articulation was gone forever! The words of Johnson lighted up a smile upon the dying mother, which could be distinctly traced upon her pallid features, even after her spirit had taken its flight to the other world.

CHAPTER X

The Rumseller's Visit—A Rival Claim—A bad Swelling from Total Abstinence—A Scene in the Street which has Mighty Consequences.

COL. SWILLER, in pursuance of a plan long cherished, but carefully concealed from Deshon, resolved at last to make an effort to captivate Miss Jane Sharpman, the old distiller's favorite daughter. Having made up his mind that Miss Jane, in consequence of sympathizing with her father in his anti-temperance feelings, stood the best chance of inheriting the bulk of his property, the idea of possessing her hand, filled with that fortune, had become a reigning thought with the rumseller. Although aware that a Major Cantwell was a rival who had broken ground in advance of himself, he still flattered himself that he could soon distance opposition.

Our redoubtable Col. Swiller resolved to introduce himself at the old distiller's under the pretext of wishing to buy a quantity of liquor of him. Swiller had bought an entire new suit from hat to boots, and rigged himself out in the best possible style. Fat and gross as he was, yet he made on this occasion quite a respectable outside appearance. His whiskers were very genteely trimmed, and showed quite well on his smooth red cheeks. Having practiced so long at his own bar, he could assume very polite manners. Many rumsellers acquire a kind of politeness which will pass very well in the crowd. Placing his hand upon the bell knob, he gave it a smart pull, which brought Twattle to the door.

"Is Col. Sharpman at home?" asked Swiller, assuming a pompous air.

"He is," replied Mike, eyeing the rumseller very closely, and examining him from head to foot.

"Tell him Col. Swiller wishes to see him," said the pompous rumseller.

Mike turned away smiling, and soon returned and ushered him into the parlor, where sat the old distiller and his daughter Jane. Sharpman had no personal acquaintance with Swiller, but knew him by reputation, and so did Jane.

"I called, sir, to bargain for a few hogsheads of your rum," said Swiller, casting an eye upon the fat Jane, who sat reading a newspaper.

"Very well," replied Sharpman, "I can accommodate you. I have some as good as was ever distilled."

"I have no doubt of that, sir," said Swiller. "Your liquor has the best reputation of any in the market, and hence I came to purchase some."

When he said that, Jane took her eyes from the paper, and glanced at Swiller with a smile beaming from her ruddy face. Swiller smiled too. A bargain for five hogsheads was soon struck, and Swiller paid over the money even before the rum was delivered. The old distiller admired such promptness in his customers. Jane kept looking slily at Swiller, and he occasionally cast a glance at her. There seemed to be a kind of sympathy or animal magnetism between them, but whether this was owing to the large mass of flesh upon their bones, or to other and more latent causes, did not appear; nevertheless, these two bodies attracted each other. Swiller assumed quite an aristocratic air, yet he endeavored to appear pleasant and agreeable as possible. Having been introduced to Jane by her father, he began a conversation with her after he had paid over the money for the liquor.

"Any news in the papers to-day?" asked Swiller, gazing pleasantly on Jane. "I have been so immersed in my business to-day that I haven't had time to read the papers."

"No news, sir, but long accounts of temperance meetings," she replied. "I wish the stupid editors would find something else to fill their papers with."

"You express my feelings exactly," replied Swiller, smiling most graciously upon her, as if he highly approved of her sentiments.

"And the feelings of all rational men and women who are not fanatics," she answered.

"Very, very true, indeed," he replied, still smiling and wheezing a little, for the warm air in the room made him perspire rather freely.

"True as holy writ," exclaimed the old distiller. "Zounds! these temperance fanatics think they are carrying all before them, but I never sold my rum better than I do now."

"And I never found my business better," said Swiller. "These lecturers are very good customers, but rather sly ones."

"Just what I have always believed, and now we have the proof," said Jane, exultingly.

"I have never doubted it," said the old distiller, ringing the bell, and ordering some wine to treat his new customer. Swiller was in high glee, and played the agreeable to Jane very adroitly. He put his best foot forward, and made the best of this first interview. Swiller having taken his leave, hastened to his saloon and there he found Frank Deshon. Swiller did not inform Frank where he had been; that matter he concluded to keep a secret.

"See!" whispered Frank. "Bill Stone is coming. Let us try to make him break his second pledge. It would be a great triumph over these temperance fools."

"I'll do my best," replied Swiller, as the sailor entered, holding his side, and appearing to be in much pain.

"How fare ye, shipmate!" said Frank, smiling.

"Sick! sick!" replied Stone, still holding his side with his hand. "A bad swelling here."

"I knew it would be so if you left off drinking," said Swiller. "Come, a little of my best brandy will relieve you."

"A terrible swelling in my larboard quarter," said the sailor. "Do you think you have anything that will take it down?"

"Brandy is the very remedy you need," replied Swiller, setting down his decanter.

"Yes," said Frank. "You have an enlargement of the liver, and all in consequence of quitting the beverage you have been accustomed to. Of all men in the world a sailor should drink and be joyful. The very life you lead demands it. A sailor without his grog must be a sorry fellow indeed."

"Bridget says this bunch on my side has been increasing ever since I signed the pledge the second time," said Stone, gazing upon the decanter slily.

"Your Bridget is right," said Swiller. "I have known many die who broke off so suddenly as you have from drinking. She begins to think differently about total abstinence I conclude, since she sees its bad effects upon your constitution."

"Ah, Bridget keeps her weather eye always open. God bless her and her little ones," replied Stone, holding his side and groaning.

"Come, take some brandy," said Swiller; "it will ease your pain and make you feel better."

"What do you suppose occasions this swelling?" asked Stone, turning his quid, and looking rather cunning.

"As I told you before, the enlargement of the liver," replied Frank. "I am glad Bridget begins to see the folly of these temperance fanatics. Come, let us take a pull at the peak all round, as you used to say."

"This swelling grows every day, and heaven only knows how big it will be if it keeps on growing as fast as it has for a few weeks past."

"Let me see it," said Swiller, starting to come round from behind the counter.

"Avast there, ye landshark," exclaimed Stone. "Ye needn't come here to see it. There it is."

At the same moment he hauled out a bag of money and threw it on the counter. Frank and Swiller gazed upon the money and then upon each other with astonishment.

"O, ye land lubbers," continued Stone, laughing loudly. "There's the swelling, and it's just such a one as Bridget loves to see. It has been growing fast ever since I quit swallowing your bilge water, ye old swill tub, as Bridget calls ye."

The sailor took his money and thrust it into his bosom again, then holding his side and laughing, he backed out of the saloon, leaving them to their own reflections.

"It seems as if the devil himself helped these temperance fellows," said Frank.

"He's gone from us forever," replied Swiller. "I don't have much hope of making that fellow break his pledge again."

CHAPTER XI

The Major's Second Interview—The Promise—Meeting of Lovers—A Happy Family.

MAJOR CANTWELL, the bachelor wooer, came to the distiller's the next evening after Col. Swiller had been there, and while the smiles and rotund form of the rumseller were fresh in the mind of Jane. The Major trembled as he put his hand upon the knob to ring the bell. He felt as if it was a desperate movement, but then it must be done, or Jane and her fine estate would surely slip through his fingers. Twattle answered the bell and ushered the Major in. It so happened that Emily had gone out with Frank Deshon, the old distiller had gone to bed rather the worse for wine, and Adeline was in her chamber, so the Major had a fair field for his operations.

"Good evening, my dear Miss Sharpman," said the Major, bowing politely and catching the toe of his highly polished boot in the hearth-rug, which came within an ace of throwing his slender form upon its beam ends.

"A very good evening," replied Jane, smiling.

"Dear me," he said, recovering his erect position, and bowing very low, "excuse me for thus blundering in a lady's presence."

"Have you any acquaintance with Col. Swiller?" she asked, after a while.

"Very little, quite slight. I barely know him, that's all. Are you acquainted with him?"

"He was here yesterday, and paid us quite a long visit," she replied, drumming with her fingers on the arm of her chair.

"Was he, indeed!" replied the Major, drumming with his fingers on the back of the sofa.

"He's a very fine, noble looking, portly gentleman," she said, emphasizing the word portly, at least so thought the Major.

"Very portly, very portly indeed!" he replied, still drumming, but in quicker time, and about to say he was altogether too portly to look decent, but a glance at her mass of flesh checked him from uttering such a sentiment.

"He seems to be very pleasant and affable in his manners," she said, laughing in her sleeve at his nervousness, for his fingers now flew in double quick time.

"I am not enough acquainted with him to judge," he replied. "I have never happened to meet him in any circles in which I move."

"I suppose he is so much engaged in his business that he don't go into society much," she said, feeling gratified that she had succeeded in stirring up the spirit of jealousy in his heart.

"Indeed, my dear, I can't say but that may be the cause," he answered. "I have heard some things about him, but no matter. I always wish to speak well of every person, if I speak of them at all."

"Ah, Major, you ought to have known better than to excite a woman's curiosity, and then to refuse to gratify it," she said. "Come, what have you heard? I insist upon knowing."

"But, my dear Miss Sharpman, I'm astonished at your anxiety!" he replied. "What particular interest have you in learning his character?"

"No particular interest, but he was here and—no matter," she replied; "just tell me what you've heard about the Colonel."

"He never was a Colonel in his life," be answered, moving from one end of the sofa to the other. "That's only a name some of his familiar companions have given him."

"I care not a fig about whether he was ever a military officer or not, but I really desire to know what you have heard about him."

"He's a gambler!" he replied, putting his right leg over his left, and gazing upon her as if he had uttered something which would shock her delicate nerves.

"Is that all?" she replied, laughing. "Why, Major, all men are gamblers!"

"No! how can you say so?" he anxiously inquired. "All men gamblers!"

"Yes, Major, all men are gamblers!" she replied. "You needn't look so astonished! I don't mean that all men play cards, but I mean it is a gambling world."

"Oh! Oh! I understand you now," he said, relaxing the muscles of his face and assuming his natural composure. "Yes, yes, I understand you! Excellent! a capital remark! A very wise saying, indeed, my dear Miss Sharpman."

"Some gentlemen play cards for money, some sell goods, some sell liquor, some send ships to foreign countries;" she continued.

"All very true," he replied. "I understand you perfectly, but —"

"And some gamble for rich wives," she said, interrupting him. "Ah, Major, all men are gamblers in one mode or another."

He now shifted legs, drummed more rapidly, and gazed upon her in silence.

"Am I not right, Major?" she asked, after a short pause.

"Indeed I never allow myself to contradict a lady," he replied.

"That is well," she said, ringing a bell; "We must have some wine together for that compliment."

While Jane and the Major were indulging in wine, Emily and Frank Deshon were returning from a visit to a poor family. She never walked out with him, unless it was for the purpose of ministering to the wants of the poor and distressed. Frank became sick of such visits, so much so that he seldom invited her to walk with him. The invitations generally came from her, and he dared not refuse to comply with them.

"Now, Frank, don't you feel better from having given that poor widow some money to buy bread for her children," said Emily, as they passed along Grand street.

"I don't feel much regret about it, for the woman appears to be very good hearted," he replied.

"She is indeed a good woman, and if her husband had not once been a moderate drinker, he would not have died a drunkard and left her and her children in poverty and distress:" she replied.

"You always lug in moderate drinking, just as if you thought every moderate drinker must become a drunkard," he said, rather impatiently.

"See!" she exclaimed. "There's a young man leaning against yonder building. He's drunk; no doubt."

"Well, if he makes a fool of himself, I don't see how we can help it," he answered.

"But we may do him some good in his wretched condition," she replied. "O, Frank, we know not the power a single kind word may have. There are moments when such words spoken on earth will be remembered through eternity."

They had now approached within a few paces of the young man.

"Gracious Heavens!" she exclaimed. "It is Edwin Raymond. O, how his mother and sister would feel, if they could see him in that condition this cold night. He must not perish!"

"Why, Emily, you would not speak to him, would you?" he asked, in trembling accents.

"Yes, or to any one in a similar condition," she replied, urging Frank along, and approaching the unfortunate Edwin. Frank hung back, as if she were leading him to the slaughter.

"Don't speak to him, but let us pass on," he said, manifesting great anxiety.

Heeding him not, she dropped her gallant's arm and walked up to Edwin. Placing her hand upon his shoulder, she said, "O, Edwin Raymond, I'm sorry to see you in such a condition this cold night!"

His face was toward the wall of the building, and he did not see her when she approached, but the tones of her voice he could not mistake. Drunk as he was, they sank deep into his heart and roused a feeling there even more exciting than the liquor which fired his brain. He instantly turned round and leaned his back against the wall, gazing upon her.

"O God!" he exclaimed. "I know the sound of that voice, and if I had heeded its warnings I should not be here now!"

Frank had now come up and attempted to lead her away: Edwin noticed it.

"Don't be alarmed, Frank Deshon," said Edwin, feeling the fumes of the liquor he had drank that evening driven from his brain by other and greater excitements. "I have seen you quite as drunk as I am."

"'Tis false, and you know it!" exclaimed the enraged Frank.

"Before high heaven I swear 'tis true," replied Edwin.

"You lie, you drunken dog!" said Frank, in a voice of trembling.

"I can't bear that," replied Edwin, springing like a tiger upon his prey, and seizing Frank by the throat.

It was but the work of a moment, and Frank was prostrate upon the sidewalk, and Edwin bending over him with uplifted arm. Frank was frightened.

"Hold!" exclaimed Emily, seizing the uplifted arm of Edwin. "Would you add the crime of murder to the sin of intemperance? Let him get up!"

"I will do so at your bidding," said Edwin, dropping his arm and stepping back. Frank gathered himself up and felt terribly ashamed.

"You must not fight," she said. "Let dogs do that. Be men!"

"I wish not to fight, but that deceitful hypocrite must not call me a liar, when I speak nothing but the truth," said Edwin. "I have seen him drunk several times."

"You must not say that, and you would not if you were sober yourself," said Frank, in a mild, trembling voice, and cringing manner.

"I do say it, and am ready to swear to it before all the stars that glitter in the firmament, and before Him who makes them shine," replied Edwin. "I'm not drunk now; at least, I don't feel so. But you must not call me a liar; for I'm free from that sin, and would to heaven I were as free from the sin of intemperance as from that!"

"Do you really wish so?" asked Emily.

"Heaven can bear me witness that I desire it more than all things else," said Edwin. "O, Miss Sharpman, you know not the power of a rum-diseased stomach! It has destroyed my happiness and that of my good mother and kind sister, and prostrated all my resolutions to reform."

"Come, Emily, let us not stand here any longer," said Frank, impatiently.

"Not much longer," she replied. "Why, Edwin, do you not sign the pledge?"

"I was thinking about it as you placed your hand upon my shoulder and spoke so kindly to me," replied Edwin. "O, I was making promises at that moment, and trembling lest I should break them!"

"I will go with you to a temperance meeting ing and see you sign the pledge, if you will do it," she said.

He stood silent, and gazed into her lovely face a few moments. What thoughts coursed through his excited brain! What emotions swelled his heart as he stood and gazed upon that countenance whose image was mirrored in his soul! And what strange feelings struggled in the heart of his rival.

"Let us go, Emily," whispered Frank. "It is not proper to be seen here."

"You heard, Edwin, what I said," she continued, regardless of what Frank had whispered.

"Heard it!" repeated Edwin, in a voice which showed how deeply he felt. "Yes, in the inmost chambers of my soul I heard it, and I hear it now, and it seems like a voice from out of yonder blue skies! I will sign the pledge! The promise has gone up to be registered in heaven! I repeat it. I will sign the pledge in your presence!"

"Heaven help you to keep that promise!" she said.

"Heaven will help me," exclaimed Edwin, seizing her hand with a nervous grasp, and feeling a strange power at work within him.

She returned the pressure of his hand, bid him good night, and passed on, feeling emotions which no human language can express. Strange as it may seem. Edwin Raymond felt so much excited at the sound of her voice, and so deeply agitated at being called a liar by such a fellow as Frank Deshon that the fumes of the alcohol seemed to be driven from his brain by a stronger excitement and greater power. He directed his steps homeward, and entered the house, apparently sober, much to the joy of his mother and sister. Taking off his hat, he sat down and gazed into the fire. His sister knew that some change had come over him, but what she could not tell. All sat in silence for some minutes, and no one seemed disposed to disturb it. While they thus sat a rap was heard at the door, and the penny post brought a letter for Edwin. He opened it, and found five dollars inclosed. The letter was written in the same hand as the other one was he received some time previous. The reader knows that Swiller and Deshon prepared the letter and the money. He took out a five dollar note, and held it up between his fingers.

"There," he said, "are five dollars sent me by some unknown person. I received the same amount once before from the same source. The former I spent for liquor, but this shall be devoted to the cause of temperance, although I suspect it was sent me for a very different purpose. A stream of light has broken in upon my darkened mind."

"What mean you?" anxiously inquired his sister, while the mother sat in breathless anxiety.

"I mean just what I say," he replied.

"Here, Sophia, take this five dollar note and use it as you think proper. I shall sign the pledge, for Emily Sharpman has promised to be a witness!"

"Emily Sharpman!" his mother and siste sister simultaneously repeated.

"Yes, that noble-hearted girl made that promise not a half an hour ago," he replied. "And she will keep it. I also promised her that I would sign the pledge, and, God helping me, I will keep my promise!"

The tears of joy ran down his mother's cheeks, for she felt that there was something in the tone of his voice which she never heard before. Sophia threw her arms round his neck and felt as if the spirit of heaven had visited that house. He related to them in detail all that occurred at his meeting with Emily and Deshon. There was a happy family under that roof that night. And we leave them to their enjoyment for the present. After Emily and Frank parted from Edwin, they passed along some time in silence, not a word being spoken by either, for both were too much engaged with their own thoughts. Frank felt most terribly agitated, and Emily's emotions were of a very peculiar nature. She had made a promise, the fulfillment of which would involve both happiness and misery. She knew very well that her accompanying Raymond to a temperance meeting, and witnessing his signing the pledge, would enrage her father beyond any reasonable bounds, and perhaps drive him to disinherit her. On the other hand, she believed that if Edwin put his name upon the pledge he would keep it, and become a sober young man. Besides, she felt the rekindling of that flame of love for Edwin, which once burned so brightly upon the altar of her heart. A thousand conflicting emotions possessed her soul, but amid them all she saw her way clearly and distinctly marked. Her promise she was resolved to keep, if heaven spared her life. They passed up to the door of her father's house, but he did not go in, neither did she urge him at all. Just as they parted, she said, "I never knew Edwin Raymond to utter a falsehood!"

Frank made no reply, for his heart was so full he dared not trust himself to speak. He bid her good night in a trembling, agitated voice, and hurried away rapidly, as if he hoped to run away from his own thoughts.

CHAPTER XII

The Conspiracy—Raymond Escapes it—New Emotions—New Plots and Plans.

FRANK DESHON passed a feverish, restless night. He rose in the morning, haggard and troubled, and sought his friend and adviser, Sam Swiller. Bill Stone was at Swiller's when Frank entered. This generous-hearted and noble advocate of temperance often visited rum holes and lectured those who kept them. It seemed as if he loved to go where temptation was, and beard the lion in his den. He had been cracking his jokes upon Swiller before Frank entered, alluding to the continued swelling in his side, and laughing at the rumseller, until the politeness of the latter was well nigh exhausted.

"Ah, shipmate," said Stone, addressing Frank as he entered the saloon with a sober face. "You're come to get something to cut the cobwebs this morning. Dry as a last year's robin's nest, I conclude. I used to feel just so in the morning. Come, my good fellow, jump on board our temperance ship, and we'll give you a fine passage and a safe harbor at last."

"Damn your temperance ship!" replied Frank, feeling much excited, and speaking before he weighed his words.

"Avast there!" exclaimed Stone. "I used to swear myself, but I broke it off when I quit swallowing this landshark's liquid fire."

"Leave my saloon!" said Swiller, in an angry voice and manner. "I want no such fellows here as you are."

"The sea's a little rough with ye this morning, I find, but 'twill be rougher yet," said Stone, passing out, but soon returning and concealing himself behind a screen which stood before the door to hide the drinking. Stone was never a listener before, and despised such positions, but somehow or other that morning he felt as if he would like to hear what Frank and Swiller had to say, for there was an unusual expression upon Frank's countenance.

"I hate that sailor worse than poison," said Swiller. "He comes here on purpose to torment me."

"He feels very pompous of late," replied Frank, looking very serious upon the floor, as if some desperate thoughts were passing through his mind.

"Why, Frank, what ails you this morning?" asked Swiller. "You look sober as a grave stone."

"Egad, his whistle wants wetting," said Stone to himself, behind the screen.

"Swiller, all's lost, unless you can devise some means to help me," said Frank, seriously.

"Come, liquor up, and you'll feel better," replied the rumseller.

"Yes, that's it," said Stone, mentally. "The cobwebs trouble him." Both drank, and Frank deeply, for he was desperate and full of trouble.

"What is it that hangs so heavily upon your mind this morning?" inquired Swiller.

"Do you want money?" asked Frank, fixing his eyes on Swiller very intensely.

"When did I refuse it!" replied Swiller. "But what mean you?"

"Can you devise some means to put that Ed Raymond out of my way?" asked Frank.

"The poor devil's doing it by degrees himself," said Swiller. "He left my saloon quite drunk last night; besides, I sent him another letter yesterday, inclosing five dollars, for I found he had run short of funds. I trusted him last night for several glasses."

"You did well, but the devil's to pay now." said Frank, relating all that occurred last night between Raymond, himself, and Emily.

"I must confess there's danger in your path," said Swiller. "Matters wear an ugly look."

"That's my opinion, exactly," said Stone within himself, listening more intently, so as not to lose a word.

"Here is a five hundred dollar note," said Frank, holding out the bill in his hand, and exposing it to the gaze of the rumseller. "It shall be any man's who will stop the breathing of Edwin Raymond."

"A bribe to murder!" mentally exclaimed the sailor. "I'll just put that down on my log-book."

"There's a way to kill without shedding blood," continued Frank. "Arsenic! arsenic! Swiller, mixed with brandy, his favorite beverage!"

"A capital idea," replied Swiller. "The thing might be done."

"Will you do it, and take that to begin with?" asked Frank, spreading out the bank note upon the counter, and making it look tempting as possible.

"Done!" said Swiller, shaking hands with Frank, and pocketing the bank note which Frank had that morning wrongfully taken from some money he was sent to pay a note of his father's in the bank. The note was a thousand and five hundred dollars, and Frank forged the names of his father and the indorser on a five hundred dollar note, and renewed for so much on short time. Bill Stone having heard all he desired to, slily left his listening post and hastened away to find Raymond, and reveal to him what he had heard. He sought him at his mother's, but Raymond had been gone out some time before. Stone tarried but a moment, and did not tell Raymond's mother or sister why he wished to see him, for he thought such information might occasion them unnecessary trouble. Stone had not been gone from Swiller's saloon but a short time before Raymond entered, trembling and much agitated. Frank saw him coming up, and concealed himself under the counter. These villains now felt sure of their victim.

"Good morning, Edwin," said Swiller, as the trembling Raymond entered, and wildly gazed upon the shining and well-arranged decanters of liquor.

"I believe I owe you a small score," said Edwin, taking some change from his pocket which his sister had given him that morning for the purpose of paying Swiller's bill.

"No consequence, whatever," said Swiller. "Another time will do just as well, and if you never pay it I shall not cry. Come, take some brandy this morning. I have a fresh importation, and the best I ever had, I think." Swiller took down the decanter of poison, and held it in his hand, rubbing it, and even putting it to his own nose.

"No, no, Swiller, I shall never drink again," replied Raymond, holding out the change. "Here, take your pay, for we must be square before I sign the pledge."

"You sign the pledge!" repeated the rumseller, laughing, and still holding the decanter. "Nonsense! Edwin. Come, take one glass, and you'll think better of it!"

"Never shall another drop of the poison pass my lips!" said Raymond.

"Poison!" exclaimed Swiller, dropping the decanter upon the marble counter, and breaking it into a thousand pieces.

"Why, isn't it poison?" asked Edwin, much surprised at the rumseller's agitation. "I'm sure it has poisoned my stomach."

"O! yes! no! True, these temperance lecturers call it poison, and yet drink it themselves," replied Swiller, recovering his balance.

"But what agitates you so?" asked Raymond.

"O, nothing," replied Swiller. "I felt the decanter slipping from my hand, and I kind of started to save it, but no matter; the loss isn't great. I have more of the same sort. Come, you must take a glass on this occasion, certainly."

"Not a drop!" answered Edwin. "I have sworn, and my oath is registered in Heaven. Take what I owe you. I can't tarry long."

The rumseller reluctantly received what was due to him, and Raymond departed. Frank emerged from his place of concealment, trembling and agitated.

"By heavens!" exclaimed Frank. "The devil's in the luck! At one time I was sure you would get the dose down his neck, but I fear it can never be done!"

"Ah, he'll feel worse to-morrow or next day," said Swiller. "His nerves tremble now, but they will shake him harder yet when he can't resist."

"Swiller, I fear we shall not succeed," replied Frank, seriously. "Emily has more power over him than all things else. His old love has returned with redoubled force, and I fear hers has too, But you must prepare another mixture and be ready."

The rumseller promised to do so, and Frank departed, much troubled in spirit.

Raymond had not proceeded far after he left Swiller's before he met the honest sailor, who was all in a perspiration. He shook Edwin's hand nervously, and appeared much agitated. "Have you been at Swiller's?" anxiously inquired Stone, rapidly turning his quid from one cheek to the other, and peering into Raymond's face, as if he feared he might see the marks of the poison there.

"I have, and paid the fellow what I owed him,'" replied Raymond.

"And did you drink?" asked the sailor, straining his eyes, and breathing hard.

"Not a drop passed my lips," replied Raymond.

"God bless ye!" exclaimed this whole-souled sailor, throwing his arms round Edwin's body, and pressing him to his beating breast. "God bless ye! Then you have steered clear of those pirates."

Stone now explained the whole affair of the conspiracy that had been formed to poison him, making the young man promise to keep the matter a secret, and let him manage it. They parted, stronger friends than ever.

Swiller lost no time in perfecting his acquaintance with Jane Sharpman, knowing that Frank's prospects grew less propitious every day. He was determined to offer himself to Jane without delay. The very evening of the day when he mixed the poison, he was found at the old distiller's and purchased a few more casks of liquor. Col. Sharpman began to think he had found an excellent customer, and treated Swiller with great politeness and even respect. Swiller went there in the early part of the evening, hoping to obtain an interview with Jane. He was very fortunate in that respect, for he found no one but herself at home. Faithfully did he improve his opportunity.

The rumseller took his leave of her soon after her father returned, and he had bargained and paid for some more liquor. He was much encouraged and fully resolved to drive his suit with all possible dispatch. The same evening, somewhat late it is true, found Frank Deshon at the old distiller's. Emily and her young sister had retired, and Frank did not regret that circumstance, for he was quite sure that Emily would never become his wife. A dark, heavy cloud hung over his prospects, through which scarcely a single ray of hope penetrated to give him comfort. Her treatment of him had grown colder and colder every week, and whether Raymond became a sober man or not, he had many doubts and misgivings in relation to winning the prize he had so long set his heart upon. Believing that Col. Sharpman would make his will and give but a very small portion of his estate to his two younger daughters whose temperance principles had rendered them very obnoxious to him, and especially if Emily executed her promise to Raymond, Deshon thought he would throw out an anchor to the windward, and begin to make love to Jane, who might and probably would inherit a large portion of the old distiller's property. It was a desperate thought, but he wished to make preparations for revenge upon Emily in case she turned him away.

It so happened that the old distiller that evening had been drinking quite freely, and so had his daughter. Frank's account of Emily's meeting with Raymond threw the father into a perfect storm of rage. He walked the room in great agitation, and swore that he would make his will and cut off Emily with a single shilling if she dared to go with Raymond to a temperance meeting. Jane, too, sided with her father, and added a few flashes of lightning to this domestic thunder-storm.

After the distiller withdrew, Frank said, I have come to the conclusion that Emily and I can never live happily together, we are so differently constituted."

"That has always been my opinion," replied Jane. "She's a strange girl, a perfect fanatic, and more fit for a lunatic asylum than she is for a gentleman's wife."

"You're right, Jane," he said, giving one of her long curls a toss with his finger and smiling. "If she had your disposition and temperament I might have some ground to hope."

"I think she does not treat you much like a lover," she said, looking softly at him.

"More like a slave than a lover!" he replied. "My patience is completely exhausted."

"No wonder, when she makes you go round with her to drunkard's houses, and even compels you to buy bread for their brats," she replied. "I have been astonished that your patience has held out so long; beside, Frank, I believe she still loves that drunken Raymond."

"There's no doubt of it," he replied, rising up and walking in much agitation. Then approaching her and smiling, he continued, "Jane, I may as well confess it first as last, and I'll do so now; I don't love her half so well as I do you. Her conduct has made me almost hate her."

"I have really thought so recently," she said, feeling some strange emotions press her heart at his announcement that he loved her more than he did Emily. "But, Frank, you were joking when you spoke just now."

"By heavens I was not!" he replied. "I do love you, Jane, more and more every day. I may truly say that just in proportion as my affection for her diminishes, it increases for you. I've been fully conscious of that for months."

"What kind of a gentleman is Col. Swiller?" she asked, purposely disregarding his last remark, and wishing to know his opinion of that notorious rumseller.

"Col. Swiller!" he repeated. "Has he been here? Do you know him? Has he—No, I will not ask the last question I was about to ask."

"He has been here, and offered me his hand and heart," she replied, laughing.

"Gracious heavens, what presumption!" he replied, manifesting much surprise and astonishment. "Swiller offer himself to you! That caps the climax of his folly. But you did not encourage him to hope, did you?"

"Men will sometimes hope when encouraged but very little," she replied, while an arch smile played over her fat, wine-flushed face. "But, Frank, you need not be so alarmed," she said. "You know, or ought to know that I like you a vast deal better than I do Col. Swiller. I know you, and am but a little acquainted with him."

"Those kind words remove a great load from my heart," he said, rising up and kissing her red forehead. "Will you accept me as a lover?"

"Indeed I will, Frank, if you are really sin cere," she replied.

"Heaven can witness my sincerity," he exclaimed. "I now offer you my hand and my heart, but let us keep this matter a profound secret for the present."

CHAPTER XIII

A Domestic Storm—The Conflagration—Great Affliction—The Conclusion.

IT was a cold, frosty morning. The air was still, but keen. Emily Sharpman had risen quite early, while the other members of the family were in bed, except the servants, Mike and Kate. Emily was engaged in dusting the parlor and setting things in order, an employment in which she frequently engaged.

"Who's that turning up to the house so early?" asked Mike, looking out of the window.

"Edwin Raymond's sister, as I live," she replied, running to the door and meeting her.

"Here's a note from my brother to you," said Miss Raymond in a trembling voice. "I came thus early, not expecting to find you up, and intending to give it to Mike Twattle, your servant. Here it is, and heaven bless you. Edwin hasn't tasted a drop of liquor since you met him. I must not tarry. Heaven will reward and bless you." She handed Emily the note and departed with a light heart. With trembling hands she opened the note, and read as follows:

"Dear Emily, there is to be a temperance meeting at the Tabernacle this evening, where I will meet you and sign the pledge. God bless you for your kindness to me. My conduct has been such as not to deserve your kindness. Although I would not have you attend the meeting to-night if it would enrage your father, yet I feel as if your presence would greatly strengthen and encourage me. I am resolved to put my name upon the pledge, and, God helping me, to keep it inviolate. I must forbear to write more, for it does not become me now to express those emotions that swell my heart."

The letter was signed "Edwin." She read it, and mentally exclaimed, "Yes, I will go if God spares my life, and no unforeseen accident prevents." We will not undertake to describe the feelings of this good girl upon this occasion.

She placed the note in her bosom and finished her work. Soon Adeline came down, and Jane a few minutes afterward, followed in a few minutes by the father, who at once went to the side-board for his bitters. Emily saw the clouds gathering upon his brow and expected a storm.

"Emily," he said, still holding the wine-glass in his hand and gazing upon her. "I have one question to ask you, and I expect a direct answer."

"You have a right to question me, and I will give a direct answer, if I am capable of doing it," she replied.

"Well then, have you made a promise to that drunken Raymond to witness him sign the pledge?"

"I have," she replied, in a pleasant but decided manner.

"And do you intend to fulfill that promise?" he asked, his lips trembling.

"I do," she answered. "It is my duty so to do."

"Zounds and fury!" he exclaimed, stamping and raving. "Do it, and you're no longer a daughter of mine!"

"If I have no earthly parent, I hope I have a heavenly one," she mildly replied.

"Do it, and I'll disinherit you! Cut you off with a single shilling. I must—I will be master in my own house! Zounds and death! I didn't think I should ever live to see such a thankless child! Do it at your peril! You've now heard my decision. Do it at your peril."

"Dear father, my peril would be much greater if I didn't fulfill my promise," she replied mildly but firmly. "What are we placed here for but to do good? I may be instrumental in saving a young man from degradation and ruin."

"Yes, and marry a reformed drunkard, I suppose. Zounds, I have no patience!"

"Surely I had much rather wed a reformed drunkard than a moderate drinker, who is traveling in the path of a drunkard," she replied.

"I'll hear no more!" he exclaimed.

The day passed and evening came, when Emily hastened to the Tabernacle, regardless of her father's threats and her sister's sneers. There she met Raymond, his mother and sister, standing in the passage way waiting for her. It was a happy meeting for all. But few words passed between them, and they entered the Tabernacle and took seats together. Edwin was calm, but strong and resolute. The presence of the good girl inspired him with a courage that would dare anything, even death itself. In the course of the evening he signed the pledge and made some eloquent remarks, which drew tears from many an eye. His mother was so overjoyed that she blessed God in an audible voice soon as her son had closed his remarks. Frank Deshon slily attended the meeting and heard his rival speak, but neither Raymond nor the others knew he was present. Deshon now rested all his hopes upon Jane, for he was quite sure she would inherit the principal part of her father's great wealth. At this meeting Stone and Johnson also spoke, and most eloquently too. The sailor made many amusing remarks, and Johnson pounced upon the rumsellers with much sarcastic power. Hundreds signed the pledge that evening.

Just before the meeting closed, the alarm of fire was raised, and many of the firemen rushed out. "Fire! fire! old Sharpman's distillery is all in a blaze!" was shouted from many voices in the streets so loudly that those in the Tabernacle, or those who were standing at the door, heard it. Then some one cried out near the door, "Old Sharpman's rumfactory is on fire." The words went through the crowded audience like a shock of electricity. Bill Stone rose and shouted at the top of his voice, "Let it burn, my hearties, we're on board a good temperance ship, with a full breeze and a flowing sail! Three cheers for the temperance ship, and six groans for the old distillery." The cheers were given with a hearty good will, but the sailor did the principal part of the groaning himself, for the audience were restrained by a sense of propriety from joining in such a demonstration. The meeting soon after broke up, and Raymond accompanied Emily home. The light of the burning distillery could be distinctly seen from many points of the city.

As Edwin parted with Emily at the door of her father's house, only the words "Good night" were uttered, but there was a pressure of their hands at parting which spoke more eloquently to their hearts than any words. When Emily entered, her father and Jane had just heard the distillery was on fire. Twattle had given the information previously. The old Colonel was in a terrible agony, sitting upon the sofa partially intoxicated, and Jane trying to console him.

Frank Deshon here entered all in a perspiration, exclaiming, "The building is nearly burned to the ground, and scarcely a cask of liquor saved."

"O God!" groaned the distiller.

"No doubt our distillery was set on fire by some of those temperance lecturers," said Jane.

"Just what I think," replied Frank. "They are desperate enough to do such deeds."

"There's not a word of truth in what you say!" answered Emily.

"Silence!" shouted the enraged father. "Every word is true, and the villains will burn my house down next if I don't keep a guard over it! O, the monsters!"

Sam Swiller now entered, puffing and wheezing like a steam engine. He had also been to the fire, and came to bring the sad news, and also to sympathize with Jane. He came running into the parlor in great haste, and without ceremony.

"I regret to say that your distillery is burnt!" said Swiller, in a wheezing voice, scarcely articulate enough to be understood.

"We know it all!" groaned the old distiller, looking very wild and trembling.

"The temperance fanatics set it on fire," said Swiller, casting an eye upon Jane, who stood with her hand upon Frank's shoulder in a sort of familiar manner which did not exactly please the rumseller, for the thought struck him that Frank might be looking in the direction of Jane since Raymond had reformed. Their eyes met as those of villains will sometimes meet.

"Just what we ought to expect from a rumseller," said Emily, in a cool manner.

"Silence!" again exclaimed the father, in a voice of trembling. "I'll not suffer you to speak in my hearing!"

"O, Heavens!" groaned the distiller. "I feel strangely!"

"O, dear father," exclaimed Emily, flying toward him, "you look wild and trembling! Do you feel indisposed? Sit down, and perhaps you may feel better."

He attempted to sit down, but in doing so, he staggered and fell upon his face.

"Another fit!" cried Emily, bending over and trying to turn him. "Do help me! I fear he's dead!"

They stood a few moments bewildered and amazed, while Emily was trying to relieve her father. In the farther part of the room, Adeline was the first one who attempted to assist Emily. They had succeeded in turning their father over upon his back. He breathed hard, and his eyes were rolled back, and white froth hung round the corners of his mouth. Mike now entered. Soon after followed Stone, the sailor. The latter had come on very special business, which will soon be made apparent. He ran to the assistance of Emily, and raised up her father, wiping the froth from his mouth, and smoothing back the hair from his forehead.

"A fit!" said Stone. "I fear he'll not recover!"

Emily hurried Mike after the family physician, but before he returned Colonel Sharpman had drawn his last breath. The sailor was very active and efficient in this scene of death. The body was removed from the parlor to another room, and all were now in the parlor except Stone, who had suddenly stepped out, but he soon returned with two officers.

"These are the two scoundrels who conspired to poison Edwin Raymond, a young man of more soul than millions of such craft," said Stone, sauntering into the middle of the room, and pointing to Deshon and Swiller. "Seize the landsharks, throw them into the hold and fasten the hatches down."

Deshon and Swiller suddenly started up and gazed wildly about, while Jane screamed and fainted. Swiller attempted to escape, but one of the officers seized him just as he was rushing past him toward the door. Deshon sank into a chair, and trembled as if he would drop into a thousand pieces. They were soon led off to prison. In due course of time they were tried, convicted, and sentenced to hard labor in the state prison for a long term. The smoke of the old distillery had ceased to ascend toward the pure skies, and its streams of liquid poison had ceased to run while its owner was slumbering in his grave.

Time passed on, and with it those changes incident to human affairs. Edwin Raymond became the husband of Emily, and a more happy couple live not in the city. Jane having learned some severe lessons in the school of affliction, became renewed in the spirit of her mind, signed the pledge, and engaged actively in the cause of temperance, giving her money freely, and even outstripping her sister in works of benevolence and charity. Major Cantwell pressed his suit with zeal, but she refused his and all other offers of marriage, preferring a single life, and living for the good of others. Harriet Raymond and her mother lived with Edwin and his wife. Mike Twattle and Kate Crochett still remained servants in the old mansion house of the distiller, but they were united in the bonds of matrimony, and Mrs. Twattle became as active as her husband in all the moral movements of the day. After his marriage with the fair-looking, sensible and substantial Kate, Mike lost his penchant for writing, and never finish ed his work of fiction. Sailor Stone and Mr. Johnson remained true to the pledge of total abstinence, working like beavers in the good cause, and reforming many who had been wallowing in the mire of intemperance as deeply as they had.

Adeline Sharpman grew up beautiful and lovely. In spite of all her father's bad examples, and her eldest sister's influence for a long time, this young girl never forgot the moral training she received from Emily. And since Jane's reformation she was doubly fortified against the temptations of the world. Jane now saw as clear as a sunbeam her past life, and devoted her time and money and good works to atone for the many errors she had committed

THE END.