Books: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

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"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.

"'I'll tell you a good way to retort on him,' I said, jestingly.

"'How is that, Mr. Malcom?'

"Pull the tap out of his whiskey-barrel.'

"'I would, if I dared.'

"'She'd better not try that, I can tell her.'

"'What would you do, if I did?' she asked.

"'Buy two more in its place, and make you drink one of them.'

"'O dear! I must beg to be excused from that. But, indeed, James, I
wish you would let it run. I'm really ashamed to have it said, that
my husband keeps a barrel of whiskey in the house.'

"'Nonsense, Sally! you don't know what you are talking about.'

"'Well, perhaps I don't,' the wife said, and remained silent, for
there was a half-concealed rebuke in her husband's tone of voice.

"I saw that I could say no more about the whiskey-barrel, and so I
dropped the subject, and, in a short time, after having finished my
business with Mr. Bradly, went away.

"'Well, how comes on the whiskey-barrel?' I said to him, about a
month after, as we met on the road.

"'First-rate,' was his reply. 'It contains a prime article of good
old 'rye,' I can tell you. The best I have ever tasted. Come, won't
you go home with me and try some?'

"'No, I believe not.'"

"'Do now--come along,' and he took me by the button, and pulled me
gently. 'You don't know how fine it is. I am sure there is not
another barrel like it in the town.'

"'You must really excuse me, Bradly,' I replied, for I found that he
was in earnest, and what was more, had a watery look about the eyes,
that argued badly for him, I thought.

"'Well, if you won't, you won't,' he said. 'But you always were an
unsocial kind of a fellow.'

"And so we parted. Six months had not passed before it was rumoured
through the neighbourhood, that Bradly had begun to neglect his
business; and that he spent too much of his time at Harry Arnold's.
I met his wife one day, about this time, and, really, her distressed
look gave me the heart ache. Something is wrong, certainly, I said
to myself. It was only a week after, that I met poor Bradly
intoxicated.

"'Ah, Malcom--good day--How are you?' he said, reeling up to me and
offering his hand.--'You havn't tried that good old rye of mine yet.
Come along now, it's most gone.'

"'You must excuse me today, Mr. Bradly,' I replied, trying to pass
on.

"But he said I should not get off this time--that home with him I
must go, and take a dram from his whiskey-barrel. Of course, I did
not go. If there had been no other reason, I had no desire, I can
assure you, to meet his wife while her husband was in so sad a
condition. After awhile I got rid of him, and right glad was I to do
so."

"Come, that'll do for one day!" broke in Harry Arnold, the
grog-shop-keeper, at this point, not relishing too well the
allusions to himself, nor, indeed, the drift of the narrative, which
he very well understood.

"No--no--go on! go on!" urged two or three of the group. But Jim
Braddock said nothing, though he looked very thoughtful.

"I'll soon get through," replied the Washingtonian, showing no
inclination to abandon his text. "You see, I did not, of course, go
home with poor Bradly, and he left me with a drunken, half-angry
malediction. That night he went down into his cellar, late, to draw
some whiskey, and forgot his candle, which had been so carelessly
set down, that it set fire to a shelf, and before it was discovered
the fire had burned through the floor above.

"Nearly all their furniture was saved, whiskey-barrel and all, but
the house was burned to the ground. Since that time, Bradly will
tell you that luck has been against him. He has been going down,
down, down, every year, and now does scarcely anything but lounge
about Harry Arnold's grog-shop and drink, while his poor wife and
children are in want and suffering, and have a most wretched look,
as you may see by this picture on the pledge. As for the
whiskey-barrel, that was rolled down here about a month ago, and
sold for half a dollar's worth of liquor, and here I now stand upon
it, and make it the foundation of a temperance speech.

"Now, let me ask you all seriously, if you do not think that James
Bradly owes his rapid downfall, in a great measure, to the fact that
Harry Arnold would not pay him a just debt in anything but whiskey?
And against Harry Arnold really your friend, that you are so willing
to beggar your wives and children to put money in his till? I only
ask the questions. You can answer then at your leisure. So ends my
speech."

"You are an insulting fellow, let me tell you!" the grog-shop-keeper
said, as he turned away, angrily, and went behind his counter.

The Washingtonian took no notice of this, but went to Jim Braddock,
who stood in a musing attitude near the door, and said--

"You will sign now, won't you, Jim?"

"No, I will not!" was his gruff response.

"I am not going to sign away my liberty for you or anybody else. So
long as I live, I'll be a free man."

"That's right, Jim! Huzza for liberty!" shouted his companions.

"Yes, huzza for liberty! say I," responded Braddock, in the effort
to rally himself, and shake off the thoughts and feelings that.
Malcom's narrative had conjured up a narrative that proved to be too
true a history of his own downfall.

"It was a shame for you to do what you did down at Harry Arnold's,"
Braddock said to the Washingtonian about half an hour afterwards,
meeting him on the street.

"Do what, Jim!"

"Why, rake up all my past history as you did, and insult Harry in
his own house into the bargain."

"How did I insult Harry Arnold?"

"By telling about that confounded whiskey-barrel that I have wished
a hundred times had been in the bottom of the sea, before it ever
fell into my hands."

"I told the truth, didn't I?"

"O yes--it was all true enough, and a great deal too true."

"He owed you a bill?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted your money?"

"Yes."

"But Harry wouldn't pay you in anything but whiskey?"

"No, he would not."

"And so you took a barrel of whiskey, that you did not want, in
payment?"

"I did."

"But would much rather have had the money?"

"Of course, I would."

"And yet, you are so exceedingly tender of Harry Arnold's feelings,
notwithstanding his agency in your ruin, that you would not have him
reminded of his original baseness--or rather his dishonesty in not
paying you in money, according to your understanding with him, for
your work?"

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