University of Virginia Library

GEORGE SANDFORD.

By Amerel

“Let us, at all events, maintain a regular correspondence
with each other,” said a young man to his
brother, as they stood by a steamboat, on which the
speaker was about to step.

“Certainly,” was the reply. But Charles, what is
that one subject to which you alluded last night, as
of the first importance to myself?”

“I almost fear to mention it.”

“Speak freely,” answered the young man; “I
have promised to take no offence.”

“Then, brother, to be plain with you, I fear that
you are imbibing an appetite for strong drink, which
may one day make you miserable.”

“Nonsense!” answered his brother. “Do you suppose
the little that I drink could harm any body?”

“Perhaps not; but remember that you drink twice
as much now as you did six months ago; and at least
four times as much as you did a year since. What
assurance have you that your present quantity will
not be doubled six months hence?”

“There may be something in that; but after all, I

have no fears of ever drinking to excess. Even Annette,
who rates me hard enough about every little
fault, hasn't thought of that yet.”

“Do you think not?”

“I know she has not.”

“Yet, George, you told me only a week since, that
an unaccountable sadness had lately mingled itself
with her words and actions, and which it seemed as
vain for you to attempt to dissipate as to explain.
May there not be some connection between that
fact and the subject we have been speaking about?”

“Well, I will think of it,” the other replied. “In
the mean while, do not be afraid of my turning
drunkard; for,” he added, laughing, “Annette will
watch me, I promise you.”

The two men parted. George, the younger one,
was slightly mortified by the conversation we have
narrated, although he exhibited no symptoms of his
feelings to his brother. Yet he could not stifle the
consciousness that his love of liquor was gradually
strengthening. But he quieted himself with the reflection
that it would be easy for him at any time to
break off the evil habit, and consequently he gave
little heed to his brother's advice. Having been but
recently married, with every prospect of happiness at
home, and success in business, he was not disposed to
interrupt his present enjoyments, by gloomy anticipations
of the future.

His brother Charles had gone to Europe on a professional
tour. During more than a year, a regular
correspondence was maintained between them; but

after this it languished, and then ceased. Charles remained
in Europe three years; and during the last
eighteen months of this time, he heard nothing of his
brother.

It was, therefore, with feelings more like sadness
and fear, than joy, that he once more reached his
native city after so long an absence. As his parents
had long since been dead, he proceeded to the former
residence of his brother. George had moved, but
none of the neighbours knew where. The traveller
walked rapidly down the street to the house of a
former friend, but he was also gone. Several other
visits were attended with a like result. He began to
be alarmed; and, after standing some time in uncertainty,
moved towards a large store, for the purpose
of consulting a directory. While doing so, a miserable
looking loafer reeled out of a grog-shop, and
came down opposite to him. Before our traveller
could step out of the way, the drunken man extended
his hand, and exclaimed—

“How d'ye do, brother?—how d'ye do?” at the
same time wagging his hand up and down, while the
other was thrust into his pocket.

The other turned aside, and was about walking
on.

“None of your shy—shy tricks, Charley,” said the
drunken man, staggering from side to side, and nodding
his head.

Charles started, and scrutinized his new acquaintance
with intense interest. Surely, this was not his
brother, George!

“I ain't drunk,” he drawled, as his body swayed
to and fro, with wondrous flexibility. “I can take
care of myself—I can—can't you, Charley?”

“Who are you?” exclaimed the astonished traveller.

The other placed both hands in his pocket, and,
balancing himself as if on wires, looked at Charles
curiously with one eye, the only one open.

“I'm George Sandford,” he replied, again extending
his hand.

“You!” exclaimed his brother. “George Sandford!”
and involuntarily he raised his glass to his
eye. It was so. The wretched object before him,
ragged, hatless, and drunken, was the brother who,
at his departure for Europe, had entered upon life
with every prospect of success.

Charles Sandford accompanied his brother to his
residence. It consisted of but one room in the second
story of a house, located in a disagreeable part of the
town. Here, amid destitution of the most trying nature,
sat Annette Sandford, holding an infant on her
knee, while another, two years old, was standing crying
by her side. The alteration upon her husband
had not been greater than that which grief had produced
upon her.

“Is the babe sick?” asked the elder Sandford, after
the first salutations were over.

“It has never been well, brother,” Annette answered.
“It wastes away daily.”

“What is it's name?”

“Charles,” the other answered. “We named it
after you; but it will not live to name you.”

There was a pause. “You have altered, Annette,”
the brother would have said, but he feared to wound
the poor wife's feelings, and refrained. Unlocking his
carpet bag, he took from it some food, and called the

little girl to him. She clapped her hands with joy, as
the welcome meal was offered to her, eating it with an
eagerness which showed that she had not tasted food
for many hours.

“A change has come over us, Charles,” said the
wife, as she strove to conceal her emotion.

The brother nodded.

“We waited long for you,” she continued, “but
you did not come. Many a night I have lain awake,
wishing I could but see you once more.”

“And you have suffered so long, alone?”

“Oh, brother, I have suffered!” she answered.
“If I should tell you all the shame, and sickness, and
racking anxiety—but I will not complain. God will
deliver me some day from this world of misery. Yet
it is for my little ones that I am willing to live and
suffer here a few years longer.”

“You must go with me, Annette.”

“Where?”

“To a place of comfort, where you may live as
you deserve to do. Your children shall be with you,
with servants of your own choice, and a house to
yourself.”

“But, brother, must I be alone?

“What do you mean, Annette?”

“Oh, Charles, I scarcely dare mention it! You are
too kind—yet my husband—I cannot help it, brother,
but miserable and degraded as he is, I love him
still.”

“He shall be provided for, sister; but he must no

longer have the opportunity to make life a burden to
you.”

“But I will see him sometimes?”

“Yes.”

“And know that he is taken care of?”

“Yes.”

The arrangements were soon completed. Mrs.
Sandford was transferred to commodious apartments,
and every effort made by Charles to reclaim his
erring brother. For a while there seemed little prospect
of success; but ultimately he signed the temperance
pledge, and became as respectable and useful,
as he had been worthless.