University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Eugene Ralston belonged to one of the most respectable
and wealthy families in New England;
and Mike, as the preserver of his life, was the object
of the regard and gratitude of all his friends. He was
immediately placed at school, where he made such

rapid progress, as, in the course of a few months, to
shoot ahead of some who had enjoyed the same privileges
from their earliest childhood.

Emerging so suddenly from the total darkness and
stagnant inactivity of his early life, into the broad
blaze of comfort, intelligence, and respectability, it
would not have been surprising if he had been entirely
overcome by the change, and thrown into the
back-ground. But there was, in the original elements
of his character, something substantial to build upon.
He could not have remained in his own native village
to the age of manhood, without rising above the level
of all about him. And now, when he had every advantage,
and every encouragement, which the glorious
system of New England education could afford, he
seemed, almost at a single stride, to measure the distance
between midnight and morning—between the
condition of semi-barbarism and that of civilization
and refinement, such as is found in the metropolis.
Every thing was new—every thing was surprising.
He could sometimes hardly believe the evidence of
his senses, or realize that the race of beings with
whom he was now associated was a part of the same
family with those among whom he had always lived.

He was less dazzled by the splendour and luxury of
the city, than awed and elevated by the sense of human
power, as exhibited in the wonderful achievements of
intelligence, skill, and industry. Young as he was,
he perceived, almost at a glance, that it was not so
much wealth, as a well-directed intelligence, and a
high moral estimate of the true ends and aims of life,

that constituted the difference between the state of
society to which he was now introduced, and that
which he had left. And he at once resolved that no
effort should be wanting on his part, to secure all the
advantages which his new situation afforded him. He
therefore applied himself with a diligence and zeal
that could not have failed, even with powers far inferior
to his own, to reap a large and rich reward. His
progress was rapid and easy; so much so, that a year
had not passed before Mr. Ralston perceived, that to
carry out his original design, of attaching Mike to
himself as a servant, would be doing him great injustice.
He not only made himself acquainted with every
subject that was brought before him, but he mastered
it; as far at least as he had means to do so. And the
attempt to hold him in a subordinate situation, could
not have been long successful, if it had been made.

It was as much to the credit of Mike's heart, as his
progress in learning was to that of his head, that, from
the very dawning of his better fortune, he never lost
sight of his parents, or his native village. He denied
himself every indulgence for the pleasure of contributing
to the comfort of his mother. Many were the
tokens of kindness sent to her during the year; and
they were always such as were best adapted to her
circumstances.

It was nearly two years from the time that Mike
left home, before he was able to make his parents a
visit. And then, when his old friend, Jim, the stage-driver,
drew up at the door of his father's hut, instead
of leaping out, as he thought he should, and shouting

at the top of his voice, he buried his face in his hands,
and burst into tears. He had never realized, till that
moment, the utter desolation of the home of his youth,
the entire absence of all that constitutes the comforts
of life, in the lot of his parents.

“Halloo there, Mike, what are you about?” said
Jim, throwing down the steps of the stage with a slam
that brought Mrs. Smiley to the door, to see what was
the matter. In an instant the tears were wiped away,
and Mike was in his mother's arms. Poor woman!
she could hardly believe her eyes. Was it possible
that this brave-looking young man was her own Mike!
She put him from her a moment; and examined him
from head to foot, without saying a word, and then,
with all a mother's heart, strained him to her bosom,
saying, “Mike, you are a good boy, Mike, to remember
your poor old mother,” and then burst into tears.
Jim wiped a drop from his eye, as he mounted his box
and drove off, saying to himself, “Well, I have heard
of people crying for joy, but I never believed it before.”

It was a sad visit for poor Mike. Every blessing
that he had enjoyed during the last two years, every
comfort he possessed, was now remembered only to
aggravate the contrast between his own lot, and that
of his parents. It made him perfectly miserable to
look about him; for he felt that as yet, he had no
power to effect any substantial change in their condition.
He poured out the fulness of his heart to his
mother, who was so happy in the good fortune of her
boy, as never to have thought that any material
change in her own lot could result from it.

“But what can I do, mother?” said Mike, earnestly,
“what can I do? I must, and will do something. It
makes me perfectly miserable to have so many comforts,
while you are so poor and wretched. God helping
me, it shall not be.”

Starting suddenly up, as he said this, he was met
by Giant Zeb, who tumbled in at the door, just in
time to hear the last words.

“What's that that shall not be? and who's that
that says so?” stammered the old man, with the peculiar
tone and accent, or, rather, with the accentless
and toneless utterance of an habitual inebriate.

Mike was struck aback in a moment. His cup
was full—he could not speak. His father tumbling
stupidly into the first chair he could reach, did not
notice him, and he stood a moment as in doubt
whether to speak, or to steal away and weep alone.
But the doubt was instantly dissipated by the sharp
voice of his mother, screaming bitterly, “Why, Zeb,
so drunk that you can't see Mike?”

“Father,” said Mike, extending his hand, “don't
you know me?”

“Know you?—let me see,” replied the old man,
rousing himself up,—“what you, Mike? Why, what
a fine gentleman!—come, go down to Tim's, and
treat all round, by way of welcome home. Ha! ha!
ha! Mike—fine gentleman—plenty of money now—
let's have another drink.”

It was with much difficulty that the old man was
diverted from this thought. He was too far gone to
reason. After some time Mike succeeded in coaxing

him to lie down on the bed, where he soon fell into
a deep sleep, from which he did not awake till a late
hour the next morning.

Mike did not close his eyes that night. He was in
a perfect agony of spirit. The whole truth had flashed
upon his mind in an instant, when the giant frame
of his father, reduced to the feebleness of infancy,
with scarcely the instinct of a brute, left to guide its
motions, tumbled in at the door of his hut, and settled,
rather than sat down, in the broken chair by his side.
He wondered he had not seen it before. Here was
the whole secret of the poverty and wretchedness
about him.—Rum, rum; that was the fire that had
eaten out the substance and the souls of all that desolate
village, and consumed parents and children for
many generations. It was like a new revelation to
his mind. He had seen men intoxicated a thousand
times before. He had seen gentlemen, as they were
called, carried home in a state of helplessness, from
a dinner-party, and from the society of ladies, who
had furnished the temptation, and plied it with all
the seductive arts of flattery which woman has ever
at command. It was a national epidemic; and no
eye had yet been opened to measure, and no voice
raised to deprecate its fearful ravages, though myriads
of hearts had been made desolate by it, though
widows and orphans had perished by millions in its
path, and the almshouses and the graveyards of the
country were teeming with its annually increasing
multitudes of victims.