As I said, the children all liked the good old gentleman, for some reason or other. Now I think of it, I guess the reason of their liking him might have been hid away in some sly place, as was the reason of Mr. Somebody fornotliking Doctor Fell. This Mr. Somebody used to say, as you probably have heard,
"I do not like you, Doctor Fell,The reason why I cannot tell."
"I do not like you, Doctor Fell,The reason why I cannot tell."
If the children had put their thoughts into rhyme, as Mr. Somebody did, when he gave vent to his feelings in the Doctor Fell affair, no doubt they would have said this, or something like it:
"I love you, sir, I love you well;The reason why I cannot tell."
"I love you, sir, I love you well;The reason why I cannot tell."
When supper was over that evening at Deacon Bissell's, the sun had been down some time. The stars were beginning to peep out of their hiding places, and the moon, who had shown her face a little before the sun took his leave, had now grown bolder, and shone out brightlyand clearly, as if she were not afraid of anybody, and as if she had some sort of a notion that she had got to be mistress.
"Well, children," said Captain Lovechild, "what are you going to drive at next?"
Mrs. Bissell remarked that she thought it was almost time for them to drive towards home, but said that she guessed the captain had something to show them, and that they might stay just half an hour longer.
Of course all the boys and girls flocked around the captain; and, sure enough, he went into another room, and showedthem one of the most curious looking instruments, they all thought, that they had ever seen in their lives.
"Oh, what is that, Captain Lovechild, and what is it for?" So the children all asked, in nearly the same breath.
I suppose, indeed, I hope, that you are so much interested in my story, that you have already had the same questions pass through your mind; and I will answer your questions as the captain answered those of his little friends. The instrument which the kind old gentleman had brought with him all the way from Boston, on purpose to please and instruct these children, was called atelescope. A telescope is a long, hollow cylinder, with glasses in it. It is so made that when you look through it, at anything a great way off, like the moon and the stars, they appear a great deal larger. It seems to bring them near to you. You can see them much more distinctly, and as you look at them, you can find out many wonderful things about them.
As soon as the captain had got the instrument in order, he took it out into the yard, and pointed one end of the long tube towards the moon.
LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE.LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE.ToList
LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE.ToList
"Now, then," said he, "just take a peep at the moon. You'll see something up there, which will make you wonder, or I'm very much mistaken. One at a time."
And the children, who did not need to be urged much, gathered around the lower end of the telescope, first one, and then another, until they had all got a peep at the wonderful things in the moon. I can't tell you how much they were delighted. It would fill a small volume, if I should set down all their "ohs," and their "ahs," and everything else which came rattling out of theirmouths, while they were looking through the telescope. But I will tell you what Samuel Bissell said, though. I will tell you one thing he said, at all events. After he had looked through the instrument, and had listened to what the old gentleman said about the moon, and the planets, and the fixed stars, "I declare," said he, "I don't know anything.I'll be somebody, I'll know something and do something, if I live."
Samuel, as you will perceive, had his little head so full of the wonders of the heavens, and had such a strong desire to add to his stock of knowledge, that heused pretty bold language. He did not say, "I'lltryto be somebody," as he might have said, if he had studied his speech a little. His head was full, so that his words burst out from his mouth as the water would burst out of a hole in the dam. Yes, and hisheartspoke, too, as well as hishead. More sincere and honest words never dropped from his lips.
A new light dawned on that youth's mind, that evening. From the moment that he uttered the resolution that he would "be somebody," he labored to gather a large harvest of knowledge; tobe something more than a mere cipher in the world; to act his part well.
"And did he succeed?" you are ready to ask. I should have to get ahead of my story to answer the question. But one thing I will say here: that if a boy makes up his mind, deliberately and firmly, that he will climb up to some high point on the hill of science, and that he will be respected and honored among his fellows—if he brings his hands, and his head, and his heart to the task, and goes ahead, through thick and thin, not turning out of his path, however he may be tempted to do so, he isalmost sure to succeed in reaching what he aims at; that is, if his life is spared and his health does not give out. I have great faith in a strong will, a clear head, right principles, a good stock of patience, and a steady disposition to go ahead. Some boys, when you talk to them about doing something and being something, always throw a bucket of cold water over you by saying, "There are so many difficulties," or, "If I were only in such a boy's place!" Well, you may always be sure that such cowards will never do anything or be anything worth mentioning; for it is not verycommon for people to accomplish much byaccident, and these little chaps, should they ever succeed at all, would have to blunder into their success.
After hearing this anecdote of Samuel, you will not wonder that, some years after this resolution was made, when he heard of his father's loss, he played the part of a hero. I will tell you about that in another chapter.
"WHAT WILL BECOME OF YOU?""WHAT WILL BECOME OF YOU?"ToList
"WHAT WILL BECOME OF YOU?"ToList
"Samuel," said his father, a few days after he learned that he was a bankrupt, "I don't know what is to become of you. I've lost all the property I had. I'm not worth a red cent."
"I guess I can take care of myself, father," said the lad. "Don't worry about that."
"Why, what can you do, Samuel?"
"Not much of anything now, I suppose—anything which will put dollars and cents into my pocket—but I can learn, if I can get a chance."
"And what would you like to do for a living?"
"There are a good many things which I would like to do," said Samuel, "and may be I shall do them some day; but I've been thinking that just now, I had better go to work in the factory."
"What! in the cotton factory?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Mason's."
"But would you like that kind of work?"
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure; I should like to try, at any rate. I should like to do something."
He did try. That very week, Samuel got a place in Mr. Mason's factory. His wages were not great, at first. But he earned more than enough to pay for his board at once, and in a month or two he did much better than that. Samuel had to work hard, though. The factory bell rang at day-break, and he was obliged to get up and work an hour or more before breakfast. All day long, from early morning till evening, and in the winter season, till nine o'clock at night, he wasrequired to be at work, with the exception of the time—and that was rather brief—allotted to meals. It was a very rare thing that the boys in the factory had a holiday. Sunday, to be sure—they had that to themselves. But most of the boys, it is to be hoped, were too well brought up and too conscientious to devote any part of that day to play and amusement.
Once in a great while, however, "like angels' visits, few and far between," came a holiday. They have a great time, you know, in every part of the good old commonwealth ofMassachusetts, when the day of the annual thanksgiving comes. Very few people, old or young, think of doing much business on that day.
end of chapter illustration, page 79
Well, in process of time, that long looked for festival arrived. No boy in Meadville had to sleep with an eye open that morning, for fear he would not hear the first accent of the tongue of the factory bell. The bell slept; and the boys slept, too, until they were called to breakfast.
Samuel had not become very intimatewith many of the factory boys. Indeed, among them all, there was only one that he cared a great deal about associating with; and this one he loved as a brother. The name of this boy—or rather, the name by which I prefer to call him in this narrative—was Frederick Noble. Frederick and Samuel, when they were not in the factory, were half their time together. I hardly know what made them so much attached to each other; though probably one reason was that the circumstances of the two were somewhat similar. Frederick's father, as well as Samuel's, had once been a man ofproperty, but, like Mr. Bissell, had become comparatively poor. There's no accounting for likes and dislikes, though. Samuel and Frederick were fond of each other, and I presume it would have puzzled either of them to tell the reason for this fondness.
These two boys, according to an arrangement which had been made a long time beforehand, were companions on thanksgiving day. If I remember aright, the governor's proclamation for thanksgiving, at the time when Frederick and Samuel were boys together, used to have these words tacked to the last end of it:"All servile labor and vain recreation on said day are by law forbidden." Still, parents and guardians allowed considerable latitude to the children in their amusements, if the governor did not. It was pretty generally understood that the young folks were to have a good time of it, on thanksgiving day.
It very often happens, that when we enjoy ourselves most—when we come nearest to being perfectly happy—we encounter the strongest temptations, or, what amounts to the same thing, we are induced to yield to temptation.
Several times during the day, thesetwo boys came very near doing something which they would have been ashamed of and heartily sorry for afterwards. They met some boys playing cards for small sums of money, and were urged to "try their luck." At first, they thought they would, "just for fun." But they finally concluded that fun of that sort was rather too dangerous—that it would cost more than it would come to—and so they passed on.
About a hundred rods from the village, in an orchard, our two friends came across a company of larger boys, who were playing ball. Here theyencountered another temptation. The ball-players were treating themselves to a kind of liquor, which, in those parts, bore the name ofegg-nog. Some of the boys and girls who read this story, or hear it read, will no doubt laugh at this unmusical and out-of-the-way name; and I confess the word looked to me so strange and barbarous, after I had written it down, that I had a great mind to dash my pen across it, and hunt up some other name for it. However, I concluded I would go straight to Webster's large dictionary, and see whether he had taken notice of the word. Imade up my mind that, if I found it in the dictionary, I would hold on to it, and that if it were missing there, I would let it stay in the society where it was born, christened and brought up. I went to the dictionary, and there I found the word, looking, for all the world, as if it were vastly at home.
"Egg-nog," says Doctor Webster, "a drink used in America, consisting of the yelks of eggs beaten up with sugar, and the whites of eggs whipped, with the addition of wine or spirits." The addition which Webster speaks of, and which consisted ofspiritswhen I wasa boy, and not ofwine, you will please to take notice, was considered a very important addition, without which the liquor would be worthless.
Well, Samuel and Frederick, though they were strongly urged to "taste of the nice egg-nog," and though they almost wished that they might so far gratify their curiosity as to taste of it, succeeded in resisting the temptation, and letting the stuff alone. Neither of them drank a drop of it; though I should not wonder if they found it rather hard work to refuse.
My young friend, perhaps you thinkthese facts are hardly worth noticing. But I look upon them in a very different light. These boys, in my opinion, gained great victories that day—victories quite as worthy of praise and honor as those of Alexander and Cæsar. They had the courage todo right, when they were tempted todo wrong. They did right. And they had their reward, no doubt, when they heard the voice of conscience in their own bosoms, whispering, "Well done."
It was more than six months after the thanksgiving festival, before the factory boys had another holiday. Time, who never stands still a moment, went on, and by and by, the Fourth of July came round. Samuel and Frederick were companions on that day, as well as on the preceding thanksgiving festival. The first thing they did, after they got up inthe morning—for they were wakened very early by the ringing of all the bells in Meadville, not excepting the one on the factory, which was keyed on a very high note, and was cracked in the bargain, though it made up in zeal and earnestness what it lacked in depth and sweetness—the first thing they did was to climb the hill that overlooked the village, where the men were firing a salute in honor of the day. There seems to be something in the smell of gunpowder, and the sound of a huge-mouthed cannon, which wakes up a good deal of patriot feeling in the breast of a child.
How my little heart, when it was not much bigger than a chipping squirrel's, used to throb with patriotism—or something else, for I am not so sure that it was patriotism, after all—while I heard the rusty old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a quantity of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it sometimes happened, I got achance to beat on that drum myself—to beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe—that performance on the drum—the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers" used.
THE YOUNG DRUMMER.THE YOUNG DRUMMER.ToList
THE YOUNG DRUMMER.ToList
It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the thunder of senior ones, have notsucha moving effect on me as they used to have. Theymove me outof the waynow. That is about all. I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislikewarmore than I did when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of, in trying to kill each other.
But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire very particularly as to the natureof the blaze. Our two friends felt as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groansfrom dying men, no whizzing of cannon balls past his ears. He saw no river of blood flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical confessions of a young hero just returned from the wars. Did you ever read them, my friend? They are worth reading, and I will quote them for you:
"My father was a farmer good,With corn and beef in plenty.I mowed, and hoed, and held the plowAnd longed for one and twenty;For I had quite a martial turn,And scorned the lowing cattle;I burned to wear a uniform,[98]Hear drums, and see a battle."My birth-day came; my father urged,But stoutly I resisted;My sister wept, my mother prayed,But off I went, and 'listed.They marched me on through wet and dry,To tunes more loud than charming,But lugging knapsack, box and gun,Was harder work than farming."We met the foe—the cannons roared—The crimson tide was flowing—The frightful death-groans filled my ears—I wished that I was mowing.I lost my leg—the foe came on—They had me in their clutches—I starved in prison till the peace,Then hobbled home on crutches."
"My father was a farmer good,With corn and beef in plenty.I mowed, and hoed, and held the plowAnd longed for one and twenty;For I had quite a martial turn,And scorned the lowing cattle;I burned to wear a uniform,[98]Hear drums, and see a battle.
"My birth-day came; my father urged,But stoutly I resisted;My sister wept, my mother prayed,But off I went, and 'listed.They marched me on through wet and dry,To tunes more loud than charming,But lugging knapsack, box and gun,Was harder work than farming.
"We met the foe—the cannons roared—The crimson tide was flowing—The frightful death-groans filled my ears—I wished that I was mowing.I lost my leg—the foe came on—They had me in their clutches—I starved in prison till the peace,Then hobbled home on crutches."
This young hero gives the other and darker side of war, you see. There is reality in what the poor fellow says, if he does tell his story in rather a humorous vein. I tell you what it is, little friend, there is nothing good in war. It is a terrible thing; and though I don't pretend to say that it is never necessary, I consider it one of the worst curses with which a nation is ever visited—worse than pestilence, worse than famine. That is the reason why I do not quite like to see boys so fond of war, and so full of the war spirit.
But we must proceed with the story.
Soon after breakfast was over that morning, Samuel and his companion strolled out into the village. None but those who are kept constantly at work in a close room, almost every day in the year, except Sunday, can imagine with what light hearts these two boys walked the streets of that factory village, on the morning of that memorable holiday. Isay memorable. It proved to be a day which neither of these boys could well forget.
As they passed along through the village in the course of the forenoon, they saw a great many sights, which to their young eyes, were worth going a great way to see. There were tents erected on the square in front of the meeting house—tents in which there were scores of eatable and drinkable things to sell. In one of these tents, there was a boy, who seemed very much at home, dealing out candies, and filberts, and raisins, and gingerbread, and liquors of differentkinds. There were a dozen different bottles and decanters in his tent, each with some sort of liquor in it.
"Hurrah!" said he, as soon as the two friends came up to the tent; "why, Fred, is that you?" And he wrung Frederick's hand much as a farmer is accustomed to wring the necks of fat chickens, a day or two before Christmas or Thanksgiving.
It turned out that the youth who was so glad to see Frederick, was Peter Pippin, a son of the butcher in the place where Frederick's father lived. Peter was a rude, untutored boy, rough as anutmeg grater, or a chestnut bur. He and Frederick had been to school together; and though they had never been very intimate, because their tastes were so different, they had been sufficiently acquainted to be really glad to see each other again, after a separation of more than a year.
"Bless me!" said Peter—Petehe was always called at school, but we will give him all that belongs to him, for that is nothing to boast of—"bless me! how you have grown, Fred. 'Pon my soul, I'm glad to see you. Come, take something to drink. What'll you have? andthat chap there with you, what'll you have, my beauty?"
This coarse language grated a good deal on Samuel's ears, and it was by no means pleasant to Frederick; but it did not affect both boys in exactly the same way. The former was so much disgusted, that, after thanking the butcher's boy for his invitation, he was hurrying away as fast as possible. The latter, while he did not care a straw for the liquor, felt kindly towards his former schoolfellow, and was rather disposed to gratify him by at least going through the ceremony of drinking.
Frederick is on dangerous ground now. But he had been on dangerous ground before, you recollect. He got off the rocks then. Let us hope he will now. But Freddy, you must look out. As the sailor says, when he is looking out at the mast head, and when he sees the vessel is driving rapidly towards the surf, "breakers ahead!" There is temptation here. To be sure, it is not so strong, but he can overcome it. How easily he resisted a similar temptation on Thanksgiving day. The result of that day's adventures shows that he can get along safely enough, if he will onlylook out for himself. Butwillhe look out for himself? We shall see.
"Hadn't we better walk along, Fred?" asked Samuel, in a kind and pleasant tone of voice.
"Not quite yet, if you please," said Frederick.
"Come, say what you'll have, Fred! Take a pull at this 'ere old Jamaky? The real critter, Fred, the real critter—none of your Boston pisin stuff. Or what do you say to a double and twisted horn of brandy what's jist come from France?"
Fred hesitated. Strange enough thathe should hesitate. Was he charmed, as a bird is said to be charmed by a black snake, so that he could not move?
"It is time to be off, Fred. Take my advice, and come along," said Samuel.
"You little chicken-hearted baby!" Peter broke in, "hold your tongue, if you don't want it pulled out by the roots."
"Wait half a minute," said Frederick to his companion. "Peter, pray don't talk so to Samuel. He is one of the best fellows that ever lived."
"Well, he ain't worth minding, any how. Come, now, are you going todrink or not? Take some punch? That's the stuff. There ain't no spirit in it hardly. Or may be you'll have some gin."
And the butcher's boy poured out a glass half full of gin and water, and passed it to Frederick, while he took good care to prepare another glass for himself. Peter drank.So did Frederick—not because he loved the liquor, but because he was good-natured. He did it to oblige his former school-fellow. I said he did it because he was good-natured. I ought rather to have said, perhaps, that it was because he had notcourage enough to do right. I am not sure but that is a more correct reason than the other.
Poor Frederick! From the moment he drank that glass of gin, he felt unhappy. All day long he thought of what he had done, and it robbed him of all his peace.
"But never mind, Fred," said his companion, "you are sorry you did it, and you will never drink any more. Let that comfort you."
I will drop the thread of Frederick's history here, for the present. Perhaps I may take it up again, though, by and by.The reason I have given any sketch at all of this boy's adventures, I frankly confess it, is that by comparing him with Samuel, and noticing where he stumbled, and how he stumbled, you might learn exactly what those traits of character were by which the latter was able to get over the difficulties he met with, and to resist the temptations that surrounded him.
Have you ever been inside of a cotton factory, reader? If so, you need not be told what sort of a place it is. I remember very well how I felt the first time I went into a spinning room. What a whirl of little wheels and great wheels, of bobbins and spindles, of drums and cylinders, there was in that room. My brain seemed to go round with thewheels; and I could hardly help holding my head with both hands, to keep it in its place. What a clatter was kept up by some of the machinery. What a dull, droning, hum-drum sound there was, besides. I could not hear the sound of my own voice, there was such a racket; and such a dense fog settled upon my mind, on account of the noise, that I could scarcely tell whether I was in the body or out of the body. Of all the places in the world, that ever I had seen or heard of, or ever expected to see or hear of, I firmly believed that the worst place for a boy to live, day afterday, was in the spinning room of a cotton factory. I had heard of dismal dungeons, in which the light of day never shone; and I had thought that they were bad enough. But this factory seemed a great deal worse than any dungeon that was ever invented. The factory would drive me crazy in a week. I was sure of that. In the dungeon, on the other hand, which, though it might be as dark as tar, was still and quiet, I fancied I could at least keep my senses.
A factory is a busy place, too. It is one of the last situations in the worldwhere a lazy person would wish to be employed. You can't be lazy there, if you try. A horse might as well undertake to be lazy in a treadmill. Some people think that factory boys and factory girls have to worktoohard; that they are confined too many hours a day, and that they don't get fresh air enough. As to that, I shall not set myself up for a judge. Very likely the children fare better in some factories than they do in others. I will say, though, that the task of a factory boy, were the factory ever so well managed, would not be so pleasant to me as many others. I will saythis; and I ought to say, besides, that when a boy getsusedto the noise of a factory, he does not mind it much. Though it almost deafens him at first, he almost forgets there is any noise after a while.
Our young friend, the peddler's boy, made up his mind, the first day he went to work in Mr. Mason's factory, that hewouldlike the business, whether or no. Well, he did like it, after a week or two—that is, he was content with it, and he was as cheerful and happy in the factory as he had been out of it. Contentment, my dear young friends, is agem. It is worth more than gold or diamonds. You can't buy it with gold or diamonds, and if you should ever happen to get hold of it, you would be foolish to part with it, for all the gold in California and all the pearls in the tower of London. I have often thought, that if the apostle Paul were to be envied for anything, it might be for the contented spirit which he had, after he got to be an old man. "I have learned," said he, "in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." What a precious lesson! I wish you would try to learn it, reader.You can learn it. You ought to learn it. Set yourself about the task, then, at once.
Samuel Bissell was content with his factory life. It was not quite so pleasant as some others were. He could not help seeing that. But he did not spend his time or any part of his time in wishing he was somewhere else, doing some other kind of business. He did not say or sing, "There's a good time coming, boys." The good timehad come, according to his notion. Still, he held on to that resolution—the resolution he formed when he got a glimpse of some of the wonders away off in the blue sky.If you had watched him during the few leisure hours he had, you would have seen that he had not forgotten that old text of his, "I'll be somebody." Many and many a time, after he got home from the factory at night, he would go to his little room, and spend an hour or two reading and thinking. There was a small library in the village where he lived, and by paying a small sum every week, he was allowed to read some very valuable books. With what eagerness he picked up every kernel of knowledge he could find about the sun, and the planets, and the stars. When most ofthe boys were playing in the streets, he was reading and studying in his chamber. While he was a factory boy, he learned from the books which fell into his hands, to dive a great deal deeper into the heart of many studies than he was taught to do in the school to which his father had sent him. He had become quite a master of the art of book-keeping; and as to geography and astronomy, I am not sure but he could have told some things about them which his former teacher never dreamed of.
Before I wind up my story, I have a good mind to go back, and tell you what became of that companion of our friend, the Peddler's Boy, who drank the glass of gin. Poor Frederick! It makes my heart sad, to think what he might have been, and what he was. He was as kind, and amiable, and industrious, and prudent, as Samuel. His habits were asgood, too, for aught that I know, up to the time when he was so thoughtless and foolish as to yield to the wishes of that coarse and wicked boy. He had been as well brought up as Samuel. Good principles had been as carefully sown in his mind. There was, then, there could have been no general reason why he did not show himself more of a hero when he met his old schoolmate.
How foolish it was for Frederick to taste that liquor. He did not love gin. He disliked the taste of it. Moreover, he knew well enough that it was wrong to taste it, and I presume he saw clearlyenough, at the time, that he was making a little dunce of himself. Why did he not run away, if he could not resist temptation while he stayed there? Why, when Samuel reminded him, so kindly, that it was time for them to go, did he not go along about his business? How foolish it was for him to stay and drink that dram, which tasted to him, I dare say, almost as bad as a dose of salts? Oh, if he had only had more courage, more principle! But there he failed—and his failure cost him dearly!
Samuel, you will recollect, tried to console him, after he had drank the glassof gin, to please Peter, by telling him that he was sure he would never do so again. But Samuel, it appeared afterwards, was too hopeful, too charitable. Frederick did drink again. How long it was after that holiday, before he did so, I don't know. Nor is it much matter. It is sufficient to know, that when a like temptation was placed before him again, he had less power to resist it than he had before. He drank again, and it was not many months before he liked dram-drinking as well as any of the boys in the factory.
However, Frederick had friends in thecity; and when he was about twenty-one years of age, some of these friends got him a good place as a clerk in a wholesale grocery store. He seemed to "turn over a new leaf," when he went to Boston to live. If he drank any—and I suppose he did a little—his habit did not grow much stronger, and he was a very faithful clerk.
After a year or two, he did so well, that his friends loaned him money, and he went into business for himself. For a year or two he did well, and was prosperous. His credit was good. His business increased. There was noreason why he should not continue to prosper. None, did I say? There was one. His love for dram-drinking grew stronger, after a while, and he drank more and more. Not that he ever got absolutely drunk; but it was not an uncommon thing for him to gethigh, as they sometimes say of the first stages of drunkenness—so high that he talked and acted very like a fool.
A habit of this kind is apt to grow upon a person. It grew upon Frederick. I will not trace his path, through all its windings, from tasting to moderate drinking, from moderate drinking todrunkenness, and from drunkenness to ruin. But such was his course. He drank till he entirely lost the power of controlling his appetite. His business affairs got out of order, and they became worse and worse. He failed. Not long after this, he was often seen reeling about the streets of Boston, a poor, miserable, drunken wretch.
One night, when he was drunk, some one who knew him, ordered a carriage, and took him to the neat little cottage which was the home of his childhood. His aged parents were already aware, to some extent, of Frederick's habits; but when they saw there, before their eyes, that living wreck of what was once their son, it seemed as if their hearts would break with anguish. That night they said not a word to their son. They knew that he was not himself, and that anything he might say then, would only add to their grief.