University of Virginia Library

MY EARLY FRIEND.

BY FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH.

I was born, and, until I had begun to look upon myself as
almost a man, was brought up in the country. My father was
a farmer, and lived in one of the rural agricultural districts of
Connecticut. Aye, I was a country boy, and my heart throbs
with new life now, as I think of the pleasures of those early
days—pleasures of which the boy who is pent up in a city
knows nothing. I never think of the country, wild, secluded,
rude, almost solitary, though it may be—I never come in con-act,
so to speak, with the electrical current of rural life, without
feeling a warm of enthusiasm thrilling through my soul. At
once, if my judgment will allow such liberties, the genins of
memory brings up before the mind a thousand charms peculiar
to country life. Troops of pleasant associations come, crowding
each other along; memories of the sweet birds and flowers; of
birds and flowers, for the two can never be dissociated; of miniature
wind-mills and water-mills; of long rambles, hand in
hand with a sister, now in heaven, by the side of the beautiful
brook, running laughingly over its stony bed, near the old farm-house;
of sassafras and sweet flag; of hickory nuts and striped
squirrels; of skating and of building snow-forts.

But I must not let these memories run away with my
readers, whatever license I may accord to them with respect to
myself.

One of the companions of my boyhood whom I most esteemed,
was Edwin Sherwood. That he was a better boy than
most of his fellows at the village school, I think it not unlikely

I should find it difficult now to demonstrate. Perhaps I could
not have demonstrated it then, technically. I was not, how
ever, the less sure that I loved Edwin better than most of my
young acquaintances. The heart, if it needs demonstration at
all, does not care for that kind of demonstration which is constructed
of accurate syllogisms. Edwin was one of my favorites;
I liked him. The precise reason why, inasmuch as we were
very unlike, in most respects, might have puzzled me as much
as it puzzled one quite as philosophically inclined as myself, to
tell why he did not like Doctor Fell. Fortunately, however,
the key of that enigma is not very essential to the chapter; it is
my purpose to sketch from the history of Edwin Sherwood.

Omitting the incidents of his earlier life, when we were
schoolboys together—his passage through the ordeal of a country
store, his promotion to a clerkship in a mercantile house
of greater note, in a neighboring village—we come to a more
important era in his history. He is to leave his native State for
a home in the City of New York. Aye, young man, it is an
important era; it is one of thrilling and solemn interest in the
history of every youth, when he breaks away from all the restraints
of the quiet home of his childhood in the country, and
becomes a citizen of this great metropolis. By thousands accustomed
only to the routine of mercantile life in the country,
and who sigh to move in a more extended sphere, it is not so
regarded Nay, you do not so regard it, and are disposed to
smile at this remark. But it is nevertheless true, and you may
one day find it so, possibly to your cost. I must not be understood
as condemning, indiscriminately, the desire, so common,
among young men educated in the country, to remove to the
city; still less as expressing, however indirectly, the notion
that such a removal, in a moral, or in any other respect, is necessarily
for the worse. This only do I affirm, that that point

in a young man's path, at which he exchanges the country for
the city, is a most solemn and momentous one.

The parents of my friend felt that it was so, when they
acceded to the request of their son, and made the arrangements
for his removal. He had enjoyed the advantages of judicious,
well-directed discipline. So far, all was favorable. The moral
and religious principles which those excellent parents inculcated
in their family, and, what is better, enforced by a uniformly
exemplary life, it was hoped, were thoroughly engrafted into
his constitution. What a power there is in these principles,
where they are allowed to germinate in early childhood, and
are faithfully and devoutly fostered by parental care, in succeeding
years. Had they penetrated the heart of Edwin Sherwood,
and taken such deep root there as to exclude those faults which
poison the affections, and render the soul a moral desert?
Those parental precepts and examples; those prayers and tears;
the kind influence of that loving sister; all the precious associations
connected with home; are they all united and entwined
as they must be, around the young man's heart, of sufficient
strength to hold him securely, when new and different influences
are brought to bear upon him?

That question came up in the minds of those parents,
though neither dared to utter it audibly, as they gave Edwin
their parting blessing. They each had fears as well as hopes.
But their hopes were stronger than their fears.

Edwin commenced his career in New York as a clerk in a
wholesale mercantile house in Pearl Street. He was competent,
efficient, faithful. Moreover, there fell to his lot a generous
share of that shrewdness so frequently ascribed—I will
not stop to inquire with how much justice—to New Englanders
generally, and the people of Connecticut in particular. “That
Sherwood,” it was a common remark of the senior partner,

“can see a great way into a mill-stone.” As may be supposed,
Edwin was not, on this account, less esteemed by his employers,
who, before he had been with them six months, gave him
a token, more substantial and tangible than words, that they
were well disposed to him.

“Indeed!” and what was that token?” Nothing more,
nothing less, than a complete suit of clothes, a la mode. Aye,
and they did well in so doing. They acted wisely; and what
is better, humanely and generously. I know there are many,
and I am inclined to think the number is not few, who will not
agree with me in this verdict. They would pay their employees
a stipulated sum, which, by mutual agreement, should be a fair
equivalent for the services rendered, and with that payment
they would stop; beyond that they would not advance an inch.
They disapprove of all perquisites, as calculated to establish mischievous
precedents, and to produce evil results in many ways.
How many men—merchants, farmers, mechanics—there are,
well disposed, wise and judicious, in the main, who consider
their part performed to those in their employ, when they have
treated them well, and paid them all they agreed to pay
them.

But is it so? Is it the part either of sagacity or humanity,
either of worldly wisdom or true Christianity, to bind no other
than a legal bond between the employer and the employed?
To create and sustain such rules of commerce between the two
classes, as to transform the latter into a Shylock, clamoring for
literal conformity to the terms of his bond, and which shall absolve
the former, morally, as well as in a legal sense, when he
has conformed to those terms? Is it good policy, to say nothing
of any higher consideration, for the employer so to suppress
the feelings of his better nature, as to measure his kind words
and acts towards those in his employ, as a despicable miser doles

out his long-hoarded gold and silver? I cannot believe it
possible.

Edwin's employers were of the same opinion. They encouraged
their clerks, when they were faithful, by kind words
and deeds. And, I repeat it, they did well in so doing. But
they might have done more. They ought to have done more,
methinks. They were deficient precisely where, it is to be
feared, a great majority of merchants and master mechanics in
our cities are deficient in their duty, to their apprentices and
clerks. The estimable gentlemen composing the firm to which
Edwin was attached, were utterly ignorant of the manner in
which their clerks spent that portion of their time—more than
three-fourths—not devoted directly to the interests of the establishment;
how they were occupied at night; how on the Sabbath.
Neither of these men were ever known to have inquired
as to the habits of these young men during this time, much less
to have endeavored, wisely and modestly, to weave around
them such a net-work of healthful, moral and religious influences
as would have a powerful tendency to shield them from
those other influences, to yield to which, is to pierce the heart
with wretched anguish, and to pave the road to ruin. Most, or
all these young men, instead of enjoying the benefits of the
family circle, lived at different hotels, where it is almost impossible
to secure the restraints and charms, and endearments of
home.

“But these clerks were not boys,” I hear some one reply.
“They were men, and capable of taking care of themselves.
It is no part of a merchant's business to play the spy with his
clerks.”

There is quite as much error as truth in these statements.
Some of these clerks were youths, under the age of twenty-one.
But grant that they were men. They were young men.

and for the most part, from the country, entirely ignorant of the
thousand snares which are set for them by fiends and fiendish
men and women in a large city. Besides, suppose a young
man is old enough to be discreet, and to be capable of taking
care of himself, does it then follow that he will take care of
himself, and that those upon whom he has some claim for sympathy
and care, are relieved from all responsibility in relation to
his moral and spiritual interests?

Edwin found companions, of a reputable and virtuous
character; and he found other companions too; young men,
who, under the guise of real friendship, aimed at his downfall.
They sought means to betray their victim as Judas betrayed his
divine Master—with a kiss. O had some voice of warning from
the lips of one whom he loved, and in whose judgment he confided,
fallen upon his ear, when that tempter was beginning to
entangle the unsuspecting youth in his wiles, with what case
might he have been saved? But no such voice was heard.

“Will you walk with me to-night?” With what a
friendly and affectionate tone was that question asked Edwin,
one day, perhaps some eight months after his removal to the
city. Who asked the question, with such a pleasing air? One
who, although but a few years Edwin's senior, was an accomplished
libertine, with art sufficient not only to conceal his real
character, but to win the love of his innocent and virtuous associates.
“Will you walk with me to-night?” Edwin was in
his room, reading a long and fond letter from his sister, when
that question was propounded. Feelings of delight, slightly
mingled with sadness, as the associations of home crowded into
his mind, brought a tear or two to his eyes, and he furtively
brushed them away, at the same time that his guest entered,
with all the familiarity of an old friend, and gave the invitation.

“No, Mr. Maynard, not to-night,” said Edwin. “I have

a letter to write.” It was the reply to that tender communication
from his sister.

“Oh, never mind that, write to-morrow,” said Maynard, as
he advanced to Edwin, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Our club meets to-night, and I want to introduce you. Come
along. You will never regret it, I promise you. If your correspondent
cannot wait one day,” he added, with a meaning
smile, “she is very unreasonable, and does not deserve to be
humored.”

There was something in the lightness of Maynard which
struck Edwin unpleasantly. It contrasted strongly with the
seriousness of his own mind at the time, and increased his disinclination
to leave home that evening. Still he was overper-suaded,
and went.

I could not tell my readers all that was said and done at this
club, if I would; and very possibly I should not choose to tell
them, if I could. It may suffice to say, in general, that it was
a school of which virtue was not the sole schoolmistress. There
was much of good connected with it, and more of evil. I say
this, without any intention of condemning indiscriminately all
associations of young men in the city, that are called by the same
general name as that which this one bears. Doubtless there is
a vast difference in them, as respects their moral character and
tendency. I design to characterize only the club to which young
Maynard belonged.

Was Edwin pleased with his associates, and the manner in
which they spent their time at the club? Not altogether. Their
mirth was somewhat too boisterous for him. They carried their
jokes rather too far. He did not like their drinking. Though
no one of them became technically and ridiculously intoxicated,
they all drank, and some, he thought, rather freely. Of course
he did not drink himself. He had been educated in a family

that discarded alcoholic stimulants as unnecessary, and withal
too dangerous to be meddled with. He was asked to drink, but
no one pressed him.

As he laid his head upon his pillow that night, his mind
was uneasy. His reflections were sad and painful. “I will go
no more,” he said, as he retired, after repeating a prayer—the
same, perhaps, that his mother taught him in his childhood, when
he kneeled before her, with his hands folded upon her knee, (for
those prayers, simple and childish as they are, cling to us till the
age of manhood, even.) “I will go no more.” His resolution was
equally strong the next day; and so it remained, until he saw
his friend Maynard again—his friend! Alas! what a misnomer!—who
came to ask Edwin to join the club as a member,
and then his mind began to waver. A great deal of persuasion
was used on one side, a great many objections were urged on the
other. Edwin was frank, his companion was artful. It will
seem strange to many, that that young man, though against the
dictates of his own conscience, in the face of the teachings of his
better judgment, and contrary to a previous decision, made intelligently
and voluntarily, should have yielded. But he did
yield, more, probably, to oblige his companion, than from any
expectation or hope that the evenings he might pass with the
club—and those were to be very few and far between, he thought
—would add either to his pleasure or profit.

Edwin was proposed and received as a member of the club.
He attended another meeting. This time the contents of the
glass were urged upon him. He yielded—not without resistance,
yet he yielded. He took the glass in his hand. He raised it to
his lips. He tasted—tasted, not drank—but his merry companions
were satisfied. They had triumphed. They knew how
great a triumph had been achieved, though their victim dreamed
not of it.

Edwin had entered a dangerous path. Something whispered
this to him, as he returned to his lodgings, after the excitement
of the second night at the club. He had entered a dangerous
path. It would not have been as easy to effect a retreat at
that point, as it would have been to resist the temptations to enter
it. Still he could have escaped with very little difficulty, had
he resolutely set himself about the task. The will had not then
surrendered to the appetites and passions. He made an effort to
escape. But it was a feeble one. He failed.

Let us now draw a veil over the history of this young man.
To detail the experience of this cherished companion of my
childhood—of the friend whom I loved almost with a brother's
affection—would be too painful a task, even were such a detail
desirable for other considerations, as it is not. The syren soon
threw around him a spell, to break which all the virtuous influences
which were exerted upon him were powerless. He fell,
and my heart is sick when I reflect into what an abyss of degradation
and guilt he had plunged himself, in two brief years from
the period of his introduction to that circle, where he first tasted
the wine cup.

I met Edwin in the autumn of 1835. It was our first meeting
since he left home for the city. I saw at a glance the sad
change which had taken place. Rumors of his intemperate
habits had reached me before; but I was not prepared for such
a spectacle. Intemperance, with its attendant vices, had undermined
his constitution. He was but the wreck of a man—so
rapidly had he run his dissolute career. I addressed him, cordially,
affectionately, frankly, as in former days. He admitted his
degradation. He did not attempt to conceal from me the fact
that he had abandoned himself to the imperious dictation of a
perverted appetite. “But,” he added, with an emphasis which

I shall never forget, and which sent a thrill of terror to my inmost
soul, “I shall die a drunkard! No power on earth can
stop me! It is too late!”

It was too late. He was already a common vagabond.
When the terrible truth burst upon the minds of his parents and
sister, that Edwin had fallen, they flew to his relief. They wept
with him, encouraged him, prayed with him. They persuaded
him to return to the parental roof, where they watched over him
with unwearied solieitude and tenderness. But it was too late.
Moral restraint, patient watchfulness, the kind counsels of a father
and mother, the loving embrace and sweet words of one of the
fondest of sisters, “charming never so wisely,” all failed to raise
that poor youth from his prostrate condition. He was lost. The
remorseless serpent of Intemperance had him within its folds,
and was crushing him to death in its embrace.

A year had scarcely elapsed since Edwin's return, when I
revisited that place endeared to me by so many pleasing associations,
as the home of my childhood. But my early friend was
no longer there. Not even the sad wreck of his former self
upon which I had gazed with so much of sadness when we last
met, remained. The village graveyard told the tale of his exit.
He was dead.

Alas, my brother!—for thou wast my brother, though fallen—alas,
my brother! I pity thy weakness and thy woes, while
I blame thy errors and thy vices. My tears have flowed like
rain for thee, as I bent over thy grave, and thought of thy childhood,
thy early love, thy misfortunes—thy untimely end. They
call thee a suicide, Edwin; but thou wast rather the victim of a
murderer, methinks. Alas, my brother!