Chapter XI: Part 11

Almost involuntarily, Mrs. Marshall took her way towards that portion of the city where she had, on the night previous, unexpectedly found him. It was not longer before she paused by the door at the same drinking-house from which her husband had been thrust, when he fell, almost lifeless, at her feet. Although it was past twelve o'clock, the sound of many voices came from within, mingled with wild excitement, and boisterous mirth.

Now came a severe trial for her shrinking, sensitive feelings. How could she, a woman, and alone, enter such a place, at such an hour, on such an errand? The thought caused a sensation of faintness to pass over her, and she leaned for a moment against the side of the door to keep from falling. But affection and thoughts of duty quickly aroused her, and resolutely keeping down every weakness, she placed her hand upon the door, which yielded readily to even her light hand, and in the next moment found herself in the presence of about a dozen men, all more or less intoxicated. Their loud, insane mirth was instantly checked by her entrance. They were all men who were in the habit of mingling daily in good society, and more than one of them knew Marshall, and instantly recognised his wife. No rudeness was, of course, offered her. On the contrary, two or three came forward, and kindly inquired, though they guessed too well, her errand there at such an hour.

"Has my husband been here to-night, Mr.--?" she asked, in a choking voice, of one whose countenance she instantly recognised.

"I have not met with him, Mrs. Marshall," was the reply, in a kind, sympathizing tone, "but I will inquire if any one here has seen him."

These inquiries were made, and then Mr.--came forward again, and said, in a low tone,

"Come with me, Mrs. Marshall."

As the two emerged into the street, Mr.--said,

"I would not, if I were you, madam, attempt to look further for your husband. I have just learned that he is safe and well, only a little overcome, by having, accidentally, I have no doubt, drunken a little too freely. In the, morning he will come home, and all will, I trust, be right again."

"What you say, I know, is meant in kindness, Mr.--," Mrs. Marshall replied, in a firmer tone, the assurance that her husband was at least safe from external danger, being some relief to her, "but I would rather see my husband, and have him taken home. Home is the best place for him, under any circumstances--and I am the most fitting one to attend to him. Will you, then, do me the favour to procure a hack, and go with me to the place where he is to be found?"

Mr.--saw that in the manner and tone of Mrs. Marshall which made him at once resolve to do as she wished him. The hack was procured, into which both entered. Directions were given, in a low tone, to the driver, and then they rattled away over the resounding pavement, for a space of time that seemed very long to the anxious wife. At last the hack stopped, the door was opened, and the steps thrown down. When Mrs. Marshall descended, she found herself in a narrow, dark street, before a low, dirty-looking tavern, the windows and doors of which had been closed for the night.

While Mr.--was knocking loudly for admission, her eyes, growing familiar with the darkness, saw something lying partly upon the street and partly upon the pavement a few yards from her, that grew more and more distinct, the more intently she looked at it. Advancing a few steps, she saw that it was the body of a man,--a few paces further, revealed to her eyes the form of her husband. An exclamation of surprise and alarm brought both Mr.--and the hack-driver to her side.

In attempting to raise Marshall to his feet, he groaned heavily, and writhed with a sensation of pain. Something dark upon the pavement attracted the eye of his wife. She touched it with her hand, to which it adhered, with a moist, oily feeling. Hurrying to the lamp in front of the hack, with a feeling of sudden alarm, she lifted her hand so that the light could fall upon it. It was covered with blood!

With a strong effort, she kept down the sudden impulse that she felt to utter a wild scream, and went back to Mr.--and communicated to him the alarming fact she had discovered. Marshall was at once laid gently down upon the pavement, and a light procured, which showed that his pantaloons, above, below, and around the knees, were saturated with blood.

"O, Mr.--! what can be the matter?" Mrs. Marshall said, in husky tones, looking up, with a face blanched to an ashy paleness.

"Some passing vehicle has, no doubt, run over him--but I trust that he is not much hurt. Remain here with him, until I can procure assistance, and have him taken home."

"O, sir, go quickly!" the poor wife replied, in earnest tones.

In a short time, four men, with a litter, were procured, upon which Marshall, now groaning, as if acutely conscious of pain, was placed, and slowly conveyed home. A surgeon reached the house as soon as the party accompanying the injured man. An examination showed that his legs had been broken just above the knees. And one of them had the flesh dreadfully torn and bruised, and both were crushed as if run over by some heavy vehicle. A still further examination showed the fracture to be compound, and extensive; but, fortunately, the knee joint had entirely escaped. Already the limbs had swollen very considerably, exhibiting a rapidly increasing inflammation. This was a natural result flowing from the large quantity of alcohol which he had evidently been taking through the day and evening.

Fortunately, notwithstanding the morbid condition of his body, and the nature and extent of the injury he had sustained, the vital system of Marshall, unexhausted by a long-continued series of physical abuse from drinking, rallied strongly against the violent inflammation that followed the setting of the bones, and dressing of the wounds, and threw off the too apparent tendency to mortification that continued, much to the anxiety of the surgeon, for many days. During this time, he suffered almost incessant pain--frequently of an excruciating character. The severity of this pain entirely destroyed all desire for intoxicating drink. This desire, however, gradually began to return, as the pain, which accompanied the knitting of the bones, subsided. But he did not venture to ask for it, and, of course, it was not offered to him.

With the most earnest attentions, and the tenderest solicitude, did Mrs. Marshall wait and watch by the bedside of her husband, both day and night, wearing down her own strength, and neglecting her children.

At the end of three weeks, he had so far recovered, as to be able to sit up, and to bear a portion of his weight. As fear for the consequences of the injury her husband had received, began to fade from the mind of Mrs. Marshall, another fear took possession of it--a heart-sickening fear, under which her spirit grew faint. There was no pledge to bind him, and his newly-awakened desire for liquor, she felt sure would bear him away inevitably, notwithstanding the dreadful lesson he had received.

About this time, however, two or three of his temperance friends, who had heard of his fall, came to see him. This encouraged her, especially as they soon began to urge him again to sign the pledge;--but he would not consent.

"It is useless," was his steady reply, to all importunities, and made usually, in a mournful tone, "for me to sign another pledge. Having broken one, wilfully and deliberately, I have no power to keep another. I am conscious of this--and, therefore, am resolved not to stain my soul with another sin."

"But you can keep it. I am sure you can," one friend, more importunate than the rest, would repeatedly urge. "You broke your first pledge, deliberately, because you believed that you were freed from the old desire, even in a latent form. Satisfied, from painful experience, that this is not the case, you will not again try so dangerous an experiment."

But Marshall would shake his head, sadly, in rejection of all arguments and persuasions.

"It may all seem easy enough for you," he would sometimes say, "who have never broken a solemn pledge; but you know not how utter a destruction of internal moral power such an act, deliberately done, effects. I am not the man I was, before I so wickedly violated that solemn compact made between myself and heaven--for so I now look upon it. While I kept my pledge, I had the sustaining power of heaven to bear me safely up against all temptations;--but since the very moment it was broken, I have had nothing but my own strength to lean upon, and that has proved to be no better than a broken reed, piercing me through with many sorrows."

To such declarations, in answer to arguments, and sometimes earnest entreaties made by his friends to induce him to renew his pledge, Mrs. Marshall would listen in silence, but with a sinking, sickening sensation of mind and body. All and more than she could say, was said to him, but he resisted every appeal--and what good could her weak persuasions and feeble admonitions do?

Day after day passed on, and Marshall gradually gained more use of his limbs. In six weeks, he could walk without the aid of his crutches.

"I think I must try and get down to the store to-morrow," he said, to his wife, about this time. "This is a busy season, and I can be of some use there for two or three hours, every day."

"I don't think I would venture out yet," Mrs. Marshall said, looking at him, with an anxious, troubled expression of countenance, that she tried in vain to conceal.

"Why not, Jane?"

"I don't think you are strong enough, dear."

"O, yes, I am. And, besides, it will do me good to go out and take the fresh air. You know that it is now six weeks since I have been outside of the front door."

"I know it has. But--"

"But what, Jane?"

"You know what I would say, Jonas. You know the terrible fear that rests upon my heart like a night-mare."

And Mrs. Marshall covered her face with her hands, and gave way to tears.

A long silence followed this. At length Marshall said,

"I hope, Jane, that I shall be able to restrain myself. I am, at least, resolved to try."

"O, husband, if you will only try!" Mrs. Marshall ejaculated eagerly, lifting her tearful eyes, and looking him with an appealing expression in the face--"If you will only try!"

"I will try, Jane. But do not feel too much confidence in my effort. I am weak--so weak that I tremble when I think of it--and remember what an almost irresistible influence I have to contend with."

"Why not take the pledge, again, Jonas?" said his wife, for the first time she had urged that recourse upon him.

"You have heard my reasons given for that, over and over again."

"I know I have. But they never satisfied me."

"You would not have me add the sin of a double violation of a solemn pledge to my already overburdened conscience?"

"No, Jonas. Heaven forbid!"

"The fear of that restrains me. I dare not again take it."

"Do you not deeply repent of your first violation?" the wife asked, after a few moments of earnest thought. "Heaven knows how deeply."

"And Heaven, that perceives and knows the depth and sincerity of that repentance, accepts it according to its quality. And just so far as Heaven accepts the sincere offering of a repentant heart, conscious of its own weakness, and mourning over its derelictions, is strength given for combat in future temptations. The bruised reed he will not break, nor quench the smoking flax. Hope, then, dear husband! you are not cast off--you are not rejected by Heaven."

"O, Jane, if I could feel the truth of what you. say, how happy I should be!--For the idea of sinking again into that hopeless, abandoned, wretched condition, out of which this severe affliction has lifted me, as by the hair of the head, is appalling!" was the reply, to his wife's earnest appeal.

"Trust me, dear husband,--there is truth in what I say. He who came down to man's lowest, and almost lost condition, that he might raise him up, and sustain him against the assaults of his worst enemies, has felt in his own body all the temptations that ever can assail his children, and not only felt them, but successfully resisted and conquered them; so that, there is no state, however low, in which there is an earnest desire to rise out of evil, to which he does not again come down, and in which he does not again successfully contend with the powers of darkness. Look to Him, then, again, in a fixed resolution to put away the evils into which you have fallen, and you must, you will be sustained!"

"O, if I could but believe this, how eagerly would I again fly to the pledge!" Marshall said, in an earnest voice.

"Fly to it then, Jonas, as to a city of refuge; for it is true. You have felt the power of the pledge once-try it again. It will be strength to you in your weakness, as it has been before."

Still Marshall hesitated. While he did so, his wife brought him pens, ink and paper.

"Write a pledge and sign it, dear husband!" she urged, as she placed them before him. "Think of me--of the joy that it will bring to my heart--and sign."

"I am afraid, Jane."

"Can you stand alone?"

"I fear not."

"Are you not sure, that the pledge will restrain you some?"

"O, yes. If I ever take it again, I shall tremble under the fearful responsibility that rests upon me."

"Come with me, a moment," Mrs. Marshall said, after a thoughtful pause.

Her husband followed, as she led the way to an adjoining room, where two or three bright-eyed children were playing in the happiest mood.

"For their sakes, if not for mine, Jonas, sign the pledge again," she said, while her voice trembled, and then became choked, as she leaned her head upon his shoulder.

"You have conquered! I will sign!" he whispered in her ear.

Eagerly she lifted her head, arid looked into his face with a glance of wild delight.

"O, how happy this poor heart will again be!" she ejaculated, clasping her hands together, and looking upwards with a joyous smile.

In a few minutes, a pledge of total abstinence from all kinds of intoxicating drinks, was written out and signed. While her husband was engaged in doing this, Mrs. Marshall stood looking down upon each letter as it was formed by his pen, eager to see his name subscribed. When that was finally done; she leaned forward on the table at which he wrote, swayed to and fro for a moment or two, and then sank down upon the floor, lost to all consciousness of external things.

From that hour to this, Jonas Marshall has been as true to his second pledge, even in thought, as the needle to the pole. So dreadful seems the idea of its violation, that the bare recollection of his former dereliction, makes him tremble.

"It was a severe remedy," he says, sometimes, in regard to his broken legs; "and proved eminently successful. But for that, I should have been utterly lost."

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

A THANKSGIVING STORY.

A MAN, who at first sight, a casual observer would have thought at least forty or fifty years of age, came creeping out of an old, miserable-looking tenement in the lower part of Cincinnati, a little while after night-fall, and, with bent body and shuffling gait, crossed the street an angle; and, after pausing for a few moments before a mean frame building, in the windows of which decanters of liquor were temptingly displayed, pushed open the door and entered.

It was early in November. Already the leaves had fallen, and there was, in the aspect of nature, a desolateness that mirrored itself in the feelings. Night had come, hiding all this, yet by no means obliterating the impression which had been made, but measurably increasing it; for, with the darkness had begun to fall a misty rain, and the rising wind moaned sadly among the eaves.

A short time after sundown the man, to whom we have just referred, came home to the comfortless-looking house we have seen him leaving. All day he had turned a wheel in a small manufactory; and when his work was done, he left, what to him was a prison-house, and retired to the cheap but wretched boarding-place he had chosen, where were congregated about a dozen men of the lowest class. He did not feel happy. That was impossible. No one who debases himself by intemperance can be happy; and this man had gone down, step by step, until he attained a depth of degradation most sad to contemplate. And yet he was not thirty years old! After supper he went out, as usual, to spend the evening in drinking.

The man, fallen as he was, and lost to all the higher and nobler sentiments of the heart, had experienced during the day a pressure upon his feelings heavier than usual, that had its origin in some reviving memories of earlier times.

The sound of his mother's voice had been in his ears frequently through the day; and images of persons, places, and scenes, the remembrance of which brought no joy to his heart, had many times come up before him. At the supper-table, amid his coarse, vulgar-minded companions, his laugh was not heard as usual; and, when spoken to, he answered briefly and in monosyllables.

The tippling-house to which the man went to spend his day's earnings and debase himself with drink, was one of the lowest haunts of vice in the city. Gambling with cards, dominoes, and dice, occupied the time of the greater number who made it a place of resort, and little was heard there except language the most obscene and profane. For his daily task at the wheel, the man was paid seventy-five cents a day. His boarding and lodging cost him thirty-one and a quarter cents,--and this had to be paid every night under penalty of being expelled from the house. He was a degraded drunkard, and not therefore worthy of confidence nor credit beyond a single day, and he received none. What remained of the pittance earned, was invariably spent in drink, or gambled away before he retired from the grogshop for the night; when, staggering home, he groped his way to his room, too helpless to remove his clothes, and threw himself upon a straw pallet, that could scarcely be dignified with the name of bed. This in outline, was the daily history of the man's life; and daily the shadows of vice fell more and more darkly upon his path.

The drinking-house had two rooms on the first floor. In front was a narrow counter, six or eight feet in length, and behind this stood a short, bloated, vice-disfigured image of humanity, ready to supply the wants of customers. Two or three roughly-made pine tables, and some chairs, stood around the room. The back apartment contained simply chairs and tables, and was generally occupied by parties engaged in games of chance, for small sums. Tobacco-smoke, the fumes of liquor, and the polluted breaths of the inmates, made the atmosphere of these rooms so offensive, that none but those who had become accustomed to inhale it, could have endured to remain there for a minute.

The man, on entering this den of vice, went to the counter and called for whisky. A decanter was set before him, and from this he poured into a glass nearly a gill of the vilest kind of stuff and drank it off, undiluted. About half the quantity of water was sent down after the burning fluid, to partially subdue its ardent qualities; and then the man turned slowly from the bar. As he did so, an individual who had seen him enter, and who had kept his eyes upon him from the moment he passed through the door, came towards him with a smile of pleasure upon his countenance, and reaching out his hand, said, in an animated voice--

"How are you, Martin, my good fellow! How are you?"

And he grasped the poor wretch's hand with a hearty grip and shook it warmly. Something like a smile lighted up the marred and almost expressionless face of the miserable creature, as he gave to the hand that had taken his a responsive pressure, and replied,

"Oh! very well, very well, considering all things."

"Bad night out," said the man, as he sat down near a stove, that was sending forth a genial heat.

"Yes, bad enough," returned Martin. A thought of the damp and chilly air without caused him to shiver suddenly, and draw a little nearer to the stove.

"Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, where we can spend a pleasant evening among pleasant friends, so much the more."

"Yes. It's very pleasant," said Martin, spreading himself out before the stove, with a hand upon each knee, and looking with an absent-minded air, through the opening in the door, which had once been closed by a thin plate of mica, and seeing strange forms in the glowing coals.

"Pleasant after a hard day's work," remarked the man, with an insinuating air.

"I don't know what life would be worth, if seasons of recreation and social intercourse did not come, nightly, to relieve both body and mind from their wearisomeness and exhaustion."

"Yes--yes. It's tiresome enough to have to sit and turn a wheel all day," said Martin.

"And a relief to get into a place like this at night," returned the man, rubbing his hands with animation.

"It's a great deal better than sitting at the wheel," sighed Martin.

"I should think it was! Come! won't you liquor."

"Thank you! I've just taken something."

"No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try something more." And he arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.

Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followed to the counter.

"What'll you take? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits? Any thing, so it's strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?" And he leered in Martin's face with a sinister expression, and slapped him familiarly on the shoulder.

"Brandy," said Martin. "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Set out your pure old Cogniac! Toby. A drink for the gods!"

"Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of your feet!" added the, man after he had turned off his glass. "Don't you say so, Martin?"

"Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!"

"Hat ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with a forced effort. "Why, Bill Martin, you're a wit!"

"It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with more truth than jest.

"That brandy would put life into a grindstone!"

"It's put life into our friend here, without doubt." And as the very disinterested companion of Martin said this, he slapped him again upon the shoulder.

The two men turned from the bar and sat down again by the stove, both getting more and more familiar and chatty.

"Suppose we try a game of dominoes or chequers?" at length suggested the friend.

"No objection," replied Martin. "Any thing to make the time pass agreeably. Suppose we say chequers?"

"Very well. Here's a board. We'll go into the backroom where it's more quiet."

The two men retired into the little den in the rear of the bar-room, where were several parties engaged at cards or dice.

"Here's a cozy little corner," said the pleasant friend of Martin. "We can be as quiet as kittens."

"What's the stake?" he next inquired, as soon as the board was opened and the pieces distributed. "Shall we say a bit?"

Martin received, at the close of each day, his earnings. Of his seventy-five cents, he had already paid out for board thirty-one and a quarter cents; and for a glass of liquor and some tobacco, six cents more. So he had but thirty-seven and a half cents. This sum he drew from his pocket, and counted over with scrupulous accuracy, so as to be sure of the amount. While he was doing so, his companion's eyes were fixed eagerly upon the small coins in his hands, in order, likewise, to ascertain their sum.

"A bit let it be." And the man laid down a twelve-and-a-half-cent piece.

"No! We'll start with a picayune," said Martin, selecting the smaller coin and placing it on the table.

"That's too trifling. Say a bit," returned the man, but half concealing the eager impatience he felt to get hold of the poor wretch's money.

"Well, I don't care! Call it a bit, then," said Martin. And the coin was staked.

An observer would have been struck with the change that now came over Martin. His dull eyes brightened; something like light came flashing into his almost expressionless face, and his lips arched with the influx of new life and feeling. He moved his pieces on the board with the promptness and skill of one accustomed to the game, and, though he played with an opponent whose clearer head gave him an advantage, he yet held his own with remarkable pertinacity, and was not beaten until after a long and well-balanced struggle. But beaten he was; and one-third of all he possessed in the world passed from his hand.

Another twelve-and-a-half-cent piece was staked, and, in like manner, lost.

"I can't go but a picayune this time," said Martin, when the pieces were arranged for the third game. "My funds are getting too low."

"Very well, a picayune let it be. Any thing just to give a little interest to the game. I'm sure you'll win this time."

And win Martin did. This elated him. He played another game and lost. The next was no more successful. Only a single picayune now remained. For a short time he hesitated about risking this. He wanted more liquor; and, if he lost, there would be no means left to gratify the ever burning thirst that consumed him. Not until the close of the next day would he receive any money; and, without money, he could get nothing. There were unpaid scores against him in a dozen shops.

"Try again. Don't be afraid. You're a better player than I am. You'll be sure to win. Luck lies in the last sixpence. Don't you know that?"

Thus urged, Martin put down the last small remnant of his day's earnings. The interest taken in the games had nearly counteracted the effects of the liquor, and he was, therefore, able to play with a skill nearly equal to that of his companion. Slowly and thoughtfully he made his moves, and calculated the effect of every change in the board with as much intelligence as it was possible for him to summon to his aid. But luck, so called, was against him. His three last pieces, kings, were swept from the board by a single play of his adversary, at a moment when he believed himself sure of the game. A bitter imprecation fell from his lips, as he turned from the table, and thrusting his hands nearly to his elbows in his pockets, stalked into the bar-room, leaving the man who had won from him the remnant of his day's earnings for the twentieth time, to enjoy the pleasures of success. This man was too much occupied in kind attentions to others who were to be his victims, to even see Martin again during the evening.

After having lost his last farthing, the latter, feeling miserable enough, sat down at a table on which were three or four newspapers, and tried to find in them something to interest his mind. He was nearer to being sober than he had been for many weeks. On the night before, he had gambled away his last penny, and the consequence was, that he had been obliged to do without liquor all day. The effects of the two glasses he had taken since nightfall had been almost entirely obliterated by the excitement of the petty struggle through which he had passed, and his mind was, therefore, in a more that usually disturbed state. The day had been one of troubled feelings; and the night found him less happy than he had been through the day.

As he ran his eye over the newspaper he was trying to read, pausing now and then at a paragraph, and seeking to find in it something of interest, the words, "Thanksgiving in Massachusetts," arrested his attention, He read over the few lines that followed this heading. They were a simple statement of the fact, that a certain day in November had been appointed as a thanksgiving day by the Governor of Massachusetts, followed by these brief remarks by some editor who had recorded the fact:--"How many look forward to this day as a time of joyful re-union! And such it is to thousands of happy families. But, somehow, we always think of the vacant places that death or absence leaves at many tables; and of the shadows that come over the feelings of those who gather in the old homestead. Of the absent, how many are wanderers, like the poor prodigal! And how gladly would they be received if they would only return, and let all the unhappy past be forgotten and forgiven! Does, by any chance, such a wanderer's eye fall upon these few sentences? If so, we do earnestly and tenderly entreat him, by the love of his mother, that is still with him, no matter how far he has gone from the right path, to come back on this blessed day; and thus make the thanksgiving of that mother's heart complete."

Every word of this appeal, which seemed as if it were addressed directly to himself, touched a responsive feeling in the bosom of Martin. One after another, images of other days passed before him--innocent, happy days. His mother's face, his mother's voice, her very words were present with unwonted vividness. Then came the recollection of blessed re-unions on the annual Thanksgiving festival. The rush of returning memories was too strong for the poor, weak, depressed wanderer from home and happiness. He felt the waters of repentance gathering in his eyes; and he drew his hand suddenly across them, with an instinctive effort to check their flow. But a fountain, long sealed, had been touched; and, ere he was more than half aware of the tendency of his feelings, a tear came forth and rested on his cheek. It was brushed away quickly. Another followed, and another. The man had lost his self-control. Into one of the lowest haunts of vice and dissipation the voice of his mother had come, speaking to him words of hope. Even here had her image followed him, and he saw her with the old smile of love upon her face. And he saw the smile give way to looks of sorrow, and heard the voice saying, in tones of the tenderest entreaty, "William! my poor wanderer! come home! Come home!"

Oh! with what deep, heart-aching sincerity did the poor wretch wish that he had never turned aside into the ways of folly. "If I could but go home and die!" he said, mentally.

"If I could but feel my mother's hand upon my forehead, and hear her voice again!"

He had remained sitting at the table with the newspaper before his face, to hide from other eyes all signs of emotion. But, the new feelings awakened were, in no degree, congenial to the gross, depraved, and sensual sphere by which he was surrounded; and, as he had no money left, and, therefore, no means of gratifying his thirst for liquor, there was no inducement for him longer to breathe the polluted atmosphere. Rising, therefore, he quietly retired; no one asking him to stay or expressing surprise at his departure He had no money to spend at the bar, nor to lose at the gaming. table; and was not, therefore, an object of the slightest interest to any.

As Martin stepped into the street, the cold rain struck him in the face, and the chilly air penetrated his thin, tattered garments. The driving mist of the early evening had changed to a heavy shower, and the street was covered with water. Through this he plunged as he crossed over, and entered his boarding-house, dripping from head to foot. He did not stop to speak with any one, but groped his way, in the dark to the attic. Removing a portion of his wet clothing, he threw himself upon his bed. He had not come to sleep, but to be alone that he might think. But thought grew so painful that he would fain have found relief in slumber, had that been possible.

"If I had never strayed from the right path!" he murmured, as he tossed himself uneasily. "Oh! if I had never strayed!"

"Go back?" he said, aloud, after some minutes' silence, answering to his own thoughts. "No--no! I will not blast them by my presence. Let them be happy."

But the wish to return, once felt, grew every moment stronger, and he struggled against it until, at last, after hours of bitter remorse and repentance, weary nature yielded, and he fell off into a more quiet sleep than he had known for weeks. In this sleep came many dreams, all of home, the old pleasant home, around which clustered every happy memory of his life; and when morning came, it found him longing to return to that home with an irrepressible desire.

"I will go back," said he, in a firm voice, as he arose at day's dawn, his mind clear and calm. "I will go home. Home--home!"

This proved no mere effervescence of the mind. The idea, once fully entertained, kept possession of his thoughts. His first resolution was to save his earnings until he had enough to procure decent clothing and pay his passage back. A week he kept to this resolution, not once tasting a drop of any intoxicating liquor. But by that time he was so impatient of delay, that he changed his purpose, and procured a situation as deck-hand on board a steamboat that was about leaving for Pittsburg. For this service, he was to receive three dollars for the trip, besides being furnished with his meals. During his week of sobriety, he had been able to save two dollars. With this money he got an old pair of boots mended which his employer at the manufactory had given him, and had his clothes repaired and washed, all of which materially improved his appearance, and gave occasion for several of his fellow-workmen to speak encouragingly, which strengthened him greatly in his good purpose.

During the passage up the river, Martin was subjected to many temptations, and once or twice came near falling into his old ways. But thoughts of home came stealing into his mind at the right moment, and saved him.

With three dollars in his pocket, the wages he had received from the steamboat captain, Martin started for Philadelphia on foot. He was eight days on the journey. When he arrived, his boots were worn through, his money all expended, and himself sick with fatigue, sad and dispirited. Luckily he met an old acquaintance, who was a hand on board a schooner loading with coal for Boston. The vessel was to pass through the canal, and then go by the way of Long Island Sound. Martin told his story to this old crony, who had once been a hard drinker but was now reformed, and he persuaded the captain to give him a passage.

Just two weeks from the time of his leaving Cincinnati, Martin saw the sails expand above him, and felt the onward movement of the vessel that was to bear him homeward. His heart swelled with sad yet pleasant emotions. It was a long time since he had heard from home; and longer still since he had seen the face of any member of his family. For years he had been a wanderer. Now returning, a mere wreck, so marred in every feature, and so changed, that even love would almost fail to recognize him, the eyes of his mind were bent eagerly forward. And, as the distance grew less and less, and he attempted to realize more and more perfectly the meeting soon to take place, his heart would beat heavily in his bosom, and a dimness come before his mental vision.

Thanksgiving, that day of days in New England, had come round again. Among the thousands by whom it was celebrated as a festive occasion, were the Martins, who resided in a village only a few miles from Boston. Old Mr. and Mrs. Martin had four children, two sons and two daughters. One of the daughters remained at home. Rachel, the oldest of the daughters, was in her twenty-third year; and Martha was nineteen. The former was married and lived in the village. Thomas, next older than Rachel, was also married. He resided ten miles away. The oldest of them all, William, was a wanderer; or, for ought they knew to the contrary, had long since passed to his great account. As many as five years had gone by since there had come from him any tidings; and nearly eight years since his place had been vacant at the Thanksgiving re-unions.

The day rose calm and bright on happy thousands. Perhaps no family in all New England would have experienced a purer delight on this occasion, than that of the Martins, had not the vacant place of an absent member reminded them of the wandering, it might be the lost. Thomas was there with his gentle wife and three bright children; Rachel with her husband and babe; and Martha with her sweet young face, that was hardly ever guiltless of a smile. But William was away; and the path in which he was treading, if he were yet alive, was hidden from their view by clouds and darkness.

Dinner, that chiefest event of every Thanksgiving day, was served immediately after the return of the family from church. It had been prepared by the hands of Martha, and she was in the act of taking an enormous turkey from the oven, when a man came to the door, and, without speaking a word, stood and looked at her attentively. She noticed him as she turned from the oven. He was a sad looking object for a New England village on Thanksgiving day. His eyes were sunken, his face thin and pale, and his old tattered garments hung loosely on his meager limbs. He looked like one just from a bed of sickness, and he bent, leaning upon a rough stick, like an old man yielding to the weight of years. Yet, poor and weak as he seemed, his clothes were clean, and his face had been recently shaven.

Struck with his appearance, Martha paused and looked at him earnestly.

"Will you let me rest here for a little while?" said the stranger, as soon as he had attracted Martha's attention.

"Oh! yes. Sit down," replied Martha, whose sympathies were instantly awakened by the man's appearance. And she handed him a chair.

Just then, Rachel, who had taken off her things on returning from church, came into the kitchen to assist Martha with the dinner. She merely glanced at the man; but he fixed upon her a most earnest look, and followed her about with his eyes as she moved from one part of the room to another.

"Martha!" called Mrs. Martin from the adjoining room. Neither of the sisters saw the start which the man gave, nor observed the quick flush that went over his face, as he turned his head in the direction from which the sound came.

Martha ran in to see what her mother wanted. In a little while she came back, and, as she entered the kitchen, she could not help remarking the strange earnestness with which the man looked at her.

Presently, Mrs. Martin herself came in. She was surprised at seeing the miserable looking object who had intruded himself upon them at a time that seemed so inopportune.

"Who is that, Martha?" she asked in a low voice, aside.

"I don't know," was answered in the same low tone--not so low, however, as to be inaudible to the quick ears of the stranger.

"What is he doing here?"

"He asked me if I would let him rest for a little while; and I couldn't say no."

"He looks sick; and he must be very poor."

"Yes, poor, indeed!" returned Mrs. Martin with a sigh; a thought of her own poor wanderer crossing her mind. This thought caused her to turn to the man and say to him,

"Have you been sick, my friend?"

The man who had been looking at her intently from the moment that she entered the room, now turned his face partly away as he replied--

"Yes. I've been sick for a number of days, but I am better now."

"You look very poor."

"I am poor--poor indeed!"

"You do not belong to these parts?"

"I do not deserve to," replied the man, low and evasively.

"Where do your friends live?"

"I don't know that I have any friends," said the man. There was a slight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answeringly, a chord in the heart of his questioner.

"No friends!"

"There still live those who were once my friends."

"And why not your friends now?"

The man shook his head, sadly.

"I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they have long since cast me forth from their regard."

"Then you have no mother," said Mrs. Martin, quickly. "A mother's love cannot die."

"I have a mother, and I have sisters," replied the man, after a pause. "Feel kindly towards me for their sakes. I have wandered long; but I am repentant; and, now returning to my old home, I seek--"

The voice that had been low and unsteady at the beginning, sunk sobbing into silence, and the stranger's head drooped upon his bosom. At that moment, Mr. Martin entered, and seeing the man, he exclaimed--

"Who in the world is this?"

"William?" fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, from the mother's lips.

"My mother!" ejaculated the stranger, starting forward, and falling into her open arms.

"William--William!" said Mr. Martin. "Oh! no! It cannot be!"

"It is! Yes! It is my poor, poor boy!" replied the mother, disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and pushing him off so that she could get a full view of his face. "Oh! William! My son! my son!" And again she hugged him wildly to her bosom.

How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy Thanksgiving day, need not be told. There was no longer a vacant place at the board; and thought turned not away, doubtingly, in a vain search for the absent and the wandering. The long lost had been found; the straying member had come home. Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving festival. Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, made glad the mother's heart that day. And it has been glad ever since, for, though Thanksgiving days have come again and again, there has been no absent member since William's return.

JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.

"YOU'LL sign it, I'm sure," said a persevering Washingtonian, who had found his way into a little village grogshop, and had there presented the pledge to some three or four of its half-intoxicated inmates. The last man whom he addressed, after having urged the others to no effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and had a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that attracted rather than repelled. The marks of the destroyer were, however, upon him, showing themselves with melancholy distinctness.

"You'll sign, I'm sure, Jim."

"O, of course," replied the individual addressed, winking, as he did so to the company, as much as to say--"Don't you want to see fun?"

"Yes, but you will, I know?"

"Of course I will. Where's the document?"

"Here it is,"--displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate devices, upon which was printed in conspicuous letters,

"We whose names--," &c.

"That's very pretty, aint it, Ike?" said Jim, or James Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.

"O, yes--very beautiful."

"Just see here," ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the pledge.--"This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose."

A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, distressed woman, following after him.

"Another cold-water man, I suppose, "Jim Braddock replied; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as before.

"O, no. That's a little mistake into which you have fallen, "Malcom said, smiling. "He is one of your firewater men. Don't you see how he has been scorched with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see such a miserable looking creature? And his poor children--and his wife! But I will say nothing about them. The picture speaks for itself."

"Here's a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance speech!" cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the group.

"O, yes.--Give us a temperance speech!" rejoined Jim Braddock, not at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving up his examination of the pledge, which had revived in his mind some associations of not the pleasantest character in the world.

"No objection at all," replied the ready Washingtonian, mounting the rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indicated, to the no small amusement of the company, and the great relief of Jim Braddock, who began to feel that the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his mouth, as he afterwards expressed it.

"Now for some rare fun!" ejaculated one of the group that gathered around the whiskey-barrel upon which Malcom stood.

"This is grand sport!" broke in another.

"Take your text, Mr. Preacher!" cried a third.

"O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon!" added a fourth, rubbing his hands with great glee.

"Very well," Malcom replied, with good humour. "Now for the text."

"Yes, give us the text," ran around the circle.

"My text will be found in Harry Arnold's grog-shop, Main street, three doors from the corner. It is in these words:--'Whiskey-barrel.' Upon this text I will now, with your permission, make a few remarks."

Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon the wretched being there represented as the follower after strong drink, he went on--

"You all see this poor creature here, and his wife and children--well, as my text and his fall from happiness and respectability are inseparably united, I will, instead of giving you a dry discourse on an empty whiskey-barrel, narrate this man's history, which involves the whiskey-barrel, and describes how it became empty, and finally how it came here. I will call him James Bradly--but take notice, that I call him a little out of his true name, so as not to seem personal.

"Well, this James Bradly was a house-carpenter--I say _was_--for although still living, he is no longer an industrious house-carpenter, but a very industrious grog-drinker,--he has changed his occupation. About five years ago, I went to his house on some business. It was about dinner-time, and the table was set, and the dinner on it.

"'Come, take some dinner with me,' Mr. Bradly said, in such a kind earnest way, that I could not resist, especially as his wife looked so happy and smiling, and the dinner so neatly served, plentiful and inviting. So I sat down with Mr. and Mrs. Bradly, and two fat, chubby-faced children; and I do not think I ever enjoyed so pleasant a meal in my life.

"After dinner was over, Mr. Bradly took me all through his house, which was new. He had just built it, and furnished it with every convenience that a man in mode. rate circumstances could desire. I was pleased with everything I saw, and praised everything with a hearty good will. At last he took me down into the cellar, and showed me a barrel of flour that he had just bought--twenty bushels of potatoes and turnips laid in for the winter, five large fat hogs, and I can't remember what all. Beside these, there was a barrel of something lying upon the cellar floor.

"'What is this?' I asked.

"'O, that is a barrel of whiskey that I have laid in also.'

"'A barrel of whiskey!' I said, in surprise.

"'Yes. I did some work for Harry Arnold, and the best I could do was to take this barrel of good old 'rye' in payment. But it is just as well. It will be a saving in the end.'

"'How so?' I asked.

"'Why, because there are more than twice as many drams in this barrel of whiskey, as I could get for what I paid for it. Of course, I save more than half.'

"'But have you taken into your calculation the fact, that, in consequence of having a barrel of whiskey so handy, you will drink about two glasses to one that you would want if you had to go down to Harry Arnold's for it every time!'

"'O yes, I have,' Bradly replied. 'But still I calculate on it being a saving, from the fact that I shall not lose so much time as I otherwise would do. A great deal of time, you know, is wasted in these dram-shops.'

"'All true. But have you never considered the danger arising from the habitual free use of liquor--such a free use as the constant sight of a whole barrel of whiskey may induce you to make?'

"'Danger!' ejaculated Mr. Bradly in surprise.

"'Yes, danger,' I repeated.

"'Of what?' he asked.

"'Of becoming too fond of liquor,' I replied.

"'I hope you do not wish to insult me in my own house, Mr. Malcom,' the carpenter said, rather sternly.

"'O no,' I replied. 'Of course I do not. I only took the liberty that a friend feels entitled to use, to hint at what seemed to me a danger that you might be running into blindly.'

"Mrs. Bradly, who had gone through the house with us, enjoying my admiration of all their comfortable arrangements, seemed to dwell with particular interest on what I said in reference to the whiskey-barrel. She was now leaning affectionately upon her husband's arm--her own drawn through his, and her hands clasped together--looking up into his face with a tender and confiding regard. I could not help noticing her manner, and the expression of her countenance. And yet it seemed to me that something of concern was on her face, but so indistinct as to be scarcely visible. Of this I was satisfied, when she said,

"'I don't think there is much use in drinking liquor, do you, Mr. Malcom?'

"'I cannot see that there is,' I replied, of course.

"'Nor can I. Of one thing I think I am certain, and that is, that James would be just as comfortable and happy without it as with it.'

"'You don't know what you are talking about, Sally,' her husband replied good-humouredly, for he was a man of excellent temper, and a little given to jesting. 'But I suppose you thought it good for you last christmas, when you got boozy on egg-nog.'

"'O James, how can you talk so!' his wife exclaimed, her face reddening. 'You know that you served me a shameful trick then.'

"'What do you think he did, Mr. Malcom?' she added, turning to me, while her husband laughed heartily at what she said. 'He begged me to let him make me a little wine egg-nog, seeing that I wouldn't touch that which had brandy in it, because liquor always flies to my head. To please him, I consented, though I didn't want it. And then, the rogue fixed me a glass as strong again with brandy as that which I had refused to take. I thought while I was drinking it, that it did not taste like wine, and told him so. But he declared that it was wine, and that it was so sweet that I could not clearly perceive its flavour. Of course I had to go to bed, and didn't get fairly over it for two or three days. Now, wasn't that too bad, Mr. Malcom!'

"'Indeed it was, Mrs. Bradly,' I said in reply.

"'It was a capital joke, though, wasn't it?' rejoined her husband, laughing immoderately.