University of Virginia Library

LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN
BUSINESS.

“And so you will not sign this paper?” said
Alfred Melton to his cousin, a fine-looking
young man, who was lounging by the centre-table

“Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do
with these decidedly vulgar temperance pledges?
Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in
their very essence!”

“Come, come, Cousin Melton,” said a brilliant,
dark-eyed girl, who had been lolling on the
sofa during the conference, “I beg of you to
give over attempting to evangelize Edward.
You see, as Falstaff has it, `he is little better
than one of the wicked.' You must not waste
such valuable temperance documents on him.”

“But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow,”
resumed Edward, “this signing, and sealing,
and pledging is altogether an unnecessary affair
for me. My past and present habits, my
situation in life—in short, everything that can

be mentioned with regard to me, goes against
the supposition of my ever becoming the slave
of a vice so debasing; and this pledging myself
to avoid it is something altogether needless
—nay, by implication, it is degrading. As to
what you say of my influence, I am inclined to
the opinion, that if every man will look to himself,
every man will be looked to. This modern
notion of tacking the whole responsibility of society
on to every individual, is one I am not at
all inclined to adopt; for, first, I know it is a
troublesome doctrine; and, secondly, I doubt
if it be a true one. For both which reasons, I
shall decline extending it my patronage.”

“Well, positively,” exclaimed the lady, “you
gentlemen have the gift of continuance in an
uncommon degree. You have discussed this
matter backward and forward till I am ready
to perish. I will take the matter in hand myself,
and sign a temperance pledge for Edward,
and see that he gets into none of those naughty
courses upon which you have been so pathetic.”

“I dare say,” said Melton, glancing on her
brilliant face with evident admiration, “that you
will be the best temperance pledge he could
have. But every man, cousin, may not be so
fortunate.”

“But, Melton,” said Edward, “seeing my
steady habits are so well provided for, you must
carry your logic and eloquence to some poor
fellow less favoured.” And thus the conference
ended.

“What a good, disinterested fellow Melton
is!” said Edward, after he had left.

“Yes, good as the day is long,” said Augusta,
“but rather prosy, after all. This tiresome
temperance business! One never hears the
end of it nowadays. Temperance papers—
temperance tracts—temperance hotels—temperance
this, that, and the other thing, even
down to temperance pocket-handkerchiefs for
little boys! Really, the world is getting intemperately
temperate.”

“Ah, well! with the security you have offered,
Augusta, I shall dread no temptation.”

Though there was nothing peculiar in these
words, yet there was a certain earnestness of
tone that called the colour into the face of
Augusta, and set her to sewing with uncommon
assiduity. And thereupon Edward proceeded
with some remark about “guardian angels,”
together with many other things of the
kind, which, though they contain no more that
is new than a temperance lecture, always seem
to have a peculiar freshness to people in certain

circumstances. In fact, before the hour
was at an end, Edward and Augusta had forgotten
where they began, and had wandered
far into that land of anticipations and bright
dreams, which surrounds the young and loving
before they eat of the tree of experience,
and gain the fatal knowledge of good and evil.

But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let
us throw in a little back ground and perspective
that will enable our readers to perceive
more readily the entire picture.

Edward Howard was a young man whose
brilliant talents and captivating manners had
placed him first in the society in which he
moved. Though without property or weight
of family connexions, he had become a leader
in the circles where these appendages are most
considered, and there were none of their immunities
and privileges that were not freely at
his disposal.

Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that
lies within the sphere of feminine attainment.
She was an orphan, and accustomed from a
very early age to the free enjoyment and control
of an independent property. This circumstance,
doubtless, added to the magic of
her personal graces in procuring for her that
flattering deference which beauty and wealth
secure.

Her mental powers were naturally superior,
although, from want of motive, they had received
no development, except such as would secure
success in society. Native good sense,
with great strength of feeling and independence
of mind, had saved her from becoming
heartless and frivolous. She was better fitted
to lead and to influence than to be influenced
or led. And hence, though not swayed by any
habitual sense of moral responsibility, the tone
of her character seemed altogether more elevated
than the average of fashionable society.

General expectation had united the destiny of
two persons who seemed every way fitted for
each other, and for once general expectation
did not err. A few months after the interview
mentioned were witnessed the festivities and
congratulations of their brilliant and happy
marriage.

Never did two young persons commence life
under happier auspices. “What an exact
match!” “What a beautiful couple!” said all
the gossips. “They seem made for each other,”
said every one; and so thought the happy
lovers themselves.

Love, which with persons of strong character
is always an earnest and sobering principle,
had made them thoughtful and considerate,

and as they looked forward to future life,
and talked of the days before them, their plans
and ideas were as rational as any plans can be,
when formed entirely with reference to this
life, without any regard to another.

For a while their absorbing attachment to
each other tended to withdraw them from the
temptations and allurements of company, and
many a long winter evening passed delightfully
in the elegant quietude of home, as they read,
and sang, and talked of the past, and dreamed
of the future in each other's society. But, contradictory
as it may appear to the theory of
the sentimentalist, it is nevertheless a fact,
that two persons cannot always find sufficient
excitement in talking to each other merely;
and this is especially true of those to whom
high excitement has been a necessary of life.
After a while, the young couple, though loving
each other none the less, began to respond to
the many calls which invited them again into
society, and the pride they felt in each other
added zest to the pleasures of their return.

As the gaze of admiration followed the graceful
motions of the beautiful wife, and the whispered
tribute went round the circle whenever
she entered, Edward felt a pride beyond all that
flattery, addressed to himself, had ever excited;

and Augusta, when told of the convivial talents
and powers of entertainment which distinguished
her husband, could not resist the temptation
of urging him into society even oftener than
his own wishes would have led him.

Alas! neither of them knew the perils of
constant excitement, nor supposed that, in thus
alienating themselves from the pure and simple
pleasures of home, they were risking their
whole capital of happiness. It is in indulging
the first desire for extra stimulus that the first
and deepest danger to domestic peace lies. Let
that stimulus be either bodily or mental, its effects
are alike to be dreaded.

The man or the woman to whom habitual excitement
of any kind has become essential, has
taken the first step towards ruin. In the case
of a woman, it leads to discontent, fretfulness,
and dissatisfaction with the quiet duties of domestic
life; in the case of a man, it leads almost
invariably to animal stimulus, ruinous
alike to the powers of body and mind.

Augusta, fondly trusting to the virtue of her
husband, saw no danger in the constant round
of engagements which were gradually drawing
his attention from the graver cares of business,
from the pursuit of self-improvement, and from
the love of herself. Already there was in her

horizon the cloud “as big as a man's hand”—
the precursor of future darkness and tempest;
but, too confident and buoyant, she saw it not.

It was not until the cares and duties of a
mother began to confine her at home, that she
first felt, with a startling sensation of fear, that
there was an alteration in her husband, though
even then the change was so shadowy and in
definite that it could not be defined by words.

It was known by that quick, prophetic sense,
which reveals to the heart of woman the first
variation in the pulse of affection, though it be
so slight that no other touch can detect it.

Edward was still fond, affectionate, admiring;
and when he tendered her all the little attentions
demanded by her situation, or caressed
and praised his beautiful son, she felt satisfied
and happy. But when she saw that, even without
her, the convivial circle had its attractions,
and that he could leave her to join it, she
sighed, she scarce knew why. “Surely,” she
said, “I am not so selfish as to wish to rob him
of pleasure because I cannot enjoy it with him.
But yet, once he told me there was no pleasure
where I was not. Alas! is it true, what I have
so often heard, that such feelings cannot always
last?”

Poor Augusta! she knew not how deep reason

she had to fear. She saw not the temptations
that surrounded her husband in the circles
where, to all the stimulus of wit and intellect
was often added the zest of wine, used far
too freely for safety.

Already had Edward become familiar with a
degree of physical excitement which touches
the very verge of intoxication; yet, strong in
self-confidence, and deluded by the customs of
society, he dreamed not of danger. The traveller
who has passed above the rapids of Niagara
may have noticed the spot where the first
white sparkling ripple announces the downward
tendency of the waters. All here is brilliancy
and beauty; and as the waters ripple and dance
in the sunbeam, they seem only as if inspired
by a spirit of new life, and not as hastening to
a dreadful fall. So the first approach to intemperance,
that ruins both body and soul, seems
only like the buoyancy and exulting freshness
of a new life, and the unconscious voyager
feels his bark undulating with a thrill of delight,
ignorant of the inexorable hurry, the tremendous
sweep, with which the laughing waters
urge him on beyond the reach of hope or
recovery.

It was at this period in the life of Edward
that one judicious and manly friend, who

would have had the courage to point out to
him the danger that every one else perceived,
might have saved him. But among the circle
of his acquaintances there was none such.
“Let every man mind his own business” was
their universal maxim. True, heads were
gravely shaken, and Mr. A. regretted to Mr.
B. that so promising a young man seemed
about to ruin himself. But one was “no relation”
of Edward's, and the other “felt a delicacy
in speaking on such a subject,” and therefore,
according to a very ancient precedent,
they “passed by on the other side.” Yet it
was at Mr. A.'s sideboard, always sparkling
with the choicest wine, that he had felt the
first excitement of extra stimulus; it was at
Mr. B.'s house that the convivial club began to
hold their meetings, which, after a time, found
a more appropriate place in a public hotel. It
is thus that the sober, the regular, and the discreet,
whose constitution saves them from liabilities
to excess, will accompany the ardent
and excitable to the very verge of danger, and
then wonder at their want of self-control.

It was a cold winter evening, and the wind
whistled drearily around the closed shutters
of the parlour in which Augusta was sitting.
Everything around her bore the marks of elegance
and comfort.

Splendid books and engravings lay about in
every direction. Vases of rare and costly flowers
exhaled perfume, and magnificent mirrors
multiplied every object. All spoke of luxury
and repose, save the anxious and sad countenance
of its mistress.

It was late, and she had watched anxiously
for her husband for many long hours. She
drew out her gold and diamond repeater, and
looked at it. It was long past midnight. She
sighed as she remembered the pleasant evenings
they had passed together, as her eye fell
on the books they had read together, and on
her piano and harp, now silent, and thought of
all he had said and looked in those days when
each was all to the other.

She was aroused from this melancholy revery
by a loud knocking at the street door. She
hastened to open it, but started back at the
sight it disclosed—her husband borne by four
men.

“Dead! is he dead?” she screamed, in agony.

“No, ma'am,” said one of the men, “but he
might as well be dead as in such a fix as this.”

The whole truth, in all its degradation, flashed
on the mind of Augusta. Without a question
or comment, she motioned to the sofa in the

parlour, and her husband was laid there. She
locked the street door, and when the last retreating
footstep had died away, she turned to
the sofa, and stood gazing in fixed and almost
stupified silence on the face of her senseless
husband.

At once she realized the whole of her fearful
lot. She saw before her the blight of her own
affections, the ruin of her helpless children, the
disgrace and misery of her husband. She looked
around her in helpless despair, for she well
knew the power of the vice whose deadly seal
was set upon her husband. As one who is
struggling and sinking in the waters casts a last
dizzy glance at the green sunny banks and distant
trees which seem sliding from his view, so
did all the scenes of her happy days pass in a
moment before her, and she groaned aloud in
bitterness of spirit. “Great God! help me—
help me!” she prayed. “Save him—oh, save
my husband!”

Augusta was a woman of no common energy
of spirit, and when the first wild burst of anguish
was over, she resolved not to be wanting
to her husband and children in a crisis so dread
ful.

“When he wakes,” she mentally exclaimed,
“I will warn and implore; I will pour out my

whole soul to save him. My poor husband, you
have been misled—betrayed. But you are too
good—too generous—too noble to be sacrificed
without a struggle.”

It was late the next morning before the stupor
in which Edward was plunged began to pass
off. He slowly opened his eyes, started up
wildly, gazed hurriedly around the room, till his
eye met the fixed and sorrowful gaze of his
wife. The past instantly flashed upon him, and
a deep flush passed over his countenance.
There was a dead, a solemn silence, until Augusta,
yielding to her agony, threw herself into
his arms, and wept.

“Then you do not hate me, Augusta?” said
he, sorrowfully.

“Hate you—never! but oh, Edward—Edward,
what has beguiled you?”

“My wife—you once promised to be my
guardian in virtue—such you are, and will be.
Oh, Augusta! you have looked on what you
shall never see again—never—never—so help
me God!” said he, looking up with solemn
earnestness.

And Augusta, as she gazed on the noble face,
the ardent expression of sincerity and remorse,
could not doubt that her husband was saved.
But Edward's plan of reformation had one grand

defect. It was merely modification and retrenchment,
and not entire abandonment. He
could not feel it necessary to cut himself off
entirely from the scenes and associations where
temptation had met him. He considered not
that, when the temperate flow of the blood and
the even balance of the nerves have once been
destroyed, there is, ever after, a double and
fourfold liability, which often makes a man the
sport of the first untoward chance.

He still contrived to stimulate sufficiently to
prevent the return of a calm and healthy state
of the mind and body, and to make constant
self-control and watchfulness necessary.

It is a great mistake to call nothing intemperance
but that degree of physical excitement
which completely overthrows the mental powers.
There is a state of nervous excitability,
resulting from what is often called moderate
stimulation, which often long precedes this, and
is, in regard to it, like the premonitory warnings
of the fatal cholera, an unsuspected draught
on the vital powers, from which, at any moment,
they may sink into irremediable collapse.

It is in this state, often, that the spirit of gambling
or of wild speculation is induced by the
morbid cravings of an over-stimulated system.
Unsatisfied with the healthy and regular routine

of business, and the laws of gradual and solid
prosperity, the excited and unsteady imagination
leads its subjects to daring risks, with the
alternative of unbounded gain on the one side,
or of utter ruin on the other. And when, as is
too often the case, that ruin comes, unrestrained
and desperate intemperance is the wretched
resort to allay the ravings of disappointment
and despair.

Such was the case with Edward. He had
lost his interest in his regular business, and he
embarked the bulk of his property in a brilliant
scheme then in vogue; and when he found a
crisis coming, threatening ruin and beggary, he
had recourse to the fatal stimulus, which, alas!
he had never wholly abandoned.

At this time he spent some months in a distant
city, separated from his wife and family,
while the insidious power of temptation daily
increased, as he kept up, by artificial stimulus,
the flagging vigour of his mind and nervous
system.

It came at last — the blow which shattered
alike his brilliant dreams and his real prosperity.
The large fortune brought by his wife
vanished in a moment, so that scarcely a pittance
remained in his hands. From the distant
city where he had been to superintend his

schemes, he thus wrote to his too confiding
wife:

“Augusta, all is over! expect no more from
your husband—believe no more of his promises
—for he is lost to you and to him. Augusta,
our property is gone; your property, which I
have blindly risked, is all swallowed up. But
is that the worst? No, no, Augusta, I am lost
—lost, body and soul, and as irretrievably as
the perishing riches I have squandered. Once
I had energy—health—nerve—resolution; but
all are gone: yes, yes, I have yielded—I do
yield daily to what is at once my tormentor
and my temporary refuge from intolerable
misery. You remember the sad hour you first
knew your husband was a drunkard. Your
look on that morning of misery—shall I ever
forget it! Yet, blind and confiding as you were,
how soon did your ill-judged confidence in me
return. Vain hopes! I was even then past recovery—even
then sealed over to blackness of
darkness forever.

“Alas! my wife, my peerless wife, why am
I your husband? why the father of such children
as you have given me? Is there nothing in
your unequalled loveliness—nothing in the innocence
of our helpless babes, that is powerful
enough to recall me?—no, there is not.

“Augusta, you know not the dreadful gnawing,
the intolerable agony of this master passion.
I walk the floor—I think of my own dear
home, my high hopes, my proud expectations,
my children, my treasured wife, my own immortal
spirit—I feel that I am sacrificing all—
feel it till I am withered with agony; but the
hour comes—the burning hour, and all is in
vain. I shall return to you no more, Augusta.
All the little wreck I have saved, I send: you
have friends, relatives—above all, you have an
energy of mind, a capacity of resolute action,
beyond that of ordinary women, and you shall
never be bound—the living to the dead. True,
you will suffer, thus to burst the bonds that
unite us; but be resolute, for you will suffer
more to watch from day to day the slow workings
of death and ruin in your husband. Would
you stay with me, to see every vestige of what
you once loved passing away; to endure the
caprice, the moroseness, the delirious anger of
one no longer master of himself? Would you
make your children victims and fellow-sufferers
with you? No! dark and dreadful is my path!
I will walk it alone: no one shall go with me.

“In some peaceful retirement you may concentrate
your strong feelings upon your children,
and bring them up to fill a place in your

heart which a worthless husband has abandoned.
If I leave you now, you will remember me as I
have been—you will love me and weep for me
when dead; but if you stay with me, your love
will be worn out; I shall become the object of
disgust and loathing. Therefore farewell, my
wife—my first, best love, farewell! with you I
part with hope,
This is a wild strain, but fit for me: do not seek
for me, do not write: nothing can save me.”

Thus abruptly began and ended the letter that
conveyed to Augusta the death-doom of her
hopes. There are moments of agony when the
most worldly heart is pressed upward to God,
even as a weight will force upward the reluctant
water. Augusta had been a generous, a high-minded,
an affectionate woman, but she had
lived entirely for this world. Her chief good
had been her husband and her children. These
had been her pride, her reliance, her dependance.
Strong in her own resources, she had
never felt the need of looking to a higher power
for assistance and happiness. But when this letter
fell from her trembling hand, her heart died
within her at its wild and reckless bitterness.

In her desperation she looked up to God.
“What have I to live for now?” was the first
feeling of her heart.

But she repressed this inquiry of selfish agony,
and besought Almighty assistance to nerve her
weakness; and here first began that practical
acquaintance with the truths and hopes of religion
which changed her whole character.

The possibility of blind, confiding idolatry of
any earthly object was swept away by the fall
of her husband, and with the full energy of a
decided and desolate spirit, she threw herself
on the protection of an Almighty helper. She
followed her husband to the city whither he
had gone, found him, and vainly attempted to
save.

There were the usual alternations of short-lived
reformations, exciting hopes only to be
destroyed. There was the gradual sinking of
the body, the decay of moral feeling and principle—the
slow but sure approach of disgusting
animalism, which marks the progress of the
drunkard.

It was some years after that a small and
partly ruinous tenement in the outskirts of
A— received a new family. The group consisted
of four children, whose wan and wistful
countenances, and still, unchildlike deportment,

testified an early acquaintance with want and
sorrow. There was the mother, faded and careworn,
whose dark and melancholy eyes, pale
cheeks and compressed lips, told of years of
anxiety and endurance. There was the father,
with haggard face, unsteady step, and that callous,
reckless air, that betrayed long familiarity
with degradation and crime. Who that had
seen Edward Howard in the morning and freshness
of his days, could have recognised him in
this miserable husband and father; or who, in
this worn and wo-stricken woman, would have
known the beautiful, brilliant, and accomplished
Augusta? Yet such changes are not fancy, as
many a bitter and broken heart can testify.

Augusta had followed her guilty husband
through many a change and many a weary wandering.
All hope of reformation had gradually
faded away. Her own eyes had seen, her ears
had heard, all those disgusting details, too revolting
to be portrayed; for in drunkenness
there is no royal road—no salvo for greatness
of mind, refinement of taste, or tenderness of
feeling. All alike are merged in the corruption
of a moral death.

The traveller, who met Edward reeling by
the roadside, was sometimes startled to hear
the fragments of classical lore, or wild bursts

of half-remembered poetry, mixing strangely
with the imbecile merriment of intoxication.
But when he stopped to gaze, there was no farther
mark on his face or in his eye by which
he could be distinguished from the loathsome
and lowest drunkard.

Augusta had come with her husband to a city
where they were wholly unknown, that she
might at least escape the degradation of their
lot in the presence of those who had known
them in better days. The long and dreadful
struggle that annihilated the hopes of this life,
had raised her feelings to rest upon the next,
and the habit of communion with God, induced
by sorrows which nothing else could console,
had given a tender dignity to her character
such as nothing else could bestow.

It is true, she deeply loved her children, but
it was with a holy, chastened love, such as in
spired the sentiment once breathed by Him
“who was made perfect through sufferings.”

“For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they
also may be sanctified.”

Poverty, deep poverty, had followed their
steps, but yet she had not fainted. Talents
which in her happier days had been nourished
merely as luxuries, were now stretched to the
utmost to furnish a support; while from the

resources of her own reading she drew that
which laid the foundation for early mental culture
in her children.

Augusta had been here but a few weeks before
her footsteps were traced by her only
brother, who had lately discovered her situation,
and urged her to forsake her unworthy
husband and find refuge with him.

“Augusta, my sister, I have found you!” he
exclaimed, as he suddenly entered one day,
while she was busied with the work of her
family.

“Henry, my dear brother!” There was a
momentary illumination of countenance accompanying
these words, which soon faded into a
mournful quietness as she cast her eyes around
on the scanty accommodations and mean apartment.

“I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you
are sinking—dragged down by a vain sense of
duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear
it any longer; I have come to take you away.”

Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly
out of the window. Her features
settled in thought. Their expression gradually
deepened from their usual tone of mild, resigned
sorrow to one of keen anguish.

“Henry,” said she, turning towards him, “never

was mortal woman so blessed in another as
I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who
knew him in those days that did not admire
and love him? They tempted and ensnared
him; and even I urged him into the path of
danger. He fell, and there was none to help.
I urged reformation, and he again and again
promised, resolved, and began. But again they
tempted him—even his very best friends; yes,
and that, too, when they knew his danger. They
led him on as far as it was safe for them to go,
and when the sweep of his more excitable temperament
took him past the point of safety and
decency, they stood by and coolly wondered
and lamented. How often was he led on by
such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and
then driven to desperation by the cold look,
averted faces, and cruel sneers of those whose
medium temperament and cooler blood saved
them from the snares which they saw were enslaving
him. What if I had forsaken him then?
What account should I have rendered to God?
Every time a friend has been alienated by his
comrades, it has seemed to seal him with another
seal. I am his wife—and mine will be
the last. Henry, when I leave him, I know his
eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a
little longer—a little longer; the hour, I see,
must come. I know my duty to my children
forbids me to keep them here; take them—they
are my last earthly comforts, Henry—but you
must take them away. It may be—O God—
perhaps it must be, that I shall soon follow; but
not till I have tried once more. What is this
present life to one who has suffered as I have?
Nothing. But eternity! Oh, Henry! eternity
—how can I abandon him to everlasting despair!
Under the breaking of my heart I have borne up.
I have borne up under all that can try a woman;
but this thought—” She stopped, and seemed
struggling with herself; but at last, borne down
by a tide of agony, she leaned her head on her
hands; the tears streamed through her fingers,
and her whole frame shook with convulsive
sobs.

Her brother wept with her; nor dared he
again to touch the point so solemnly guarded.
The next day Augusta parted from her children,
hoping something from feelings that, possibly,
might be stirred by their absence in the bosom
of their father.

It was about a week after this that Augusta
one evening presented herself at the door of a
rich Mr. L—, whose princely mansion was
one of the ornaments of the city of A—. It
was not till she reached the sumptuous drawing-room

that she recognised in Mr. L— one
whom she and her husband had frequently met
in the gay circles of their early life. Altered
as she was, Mr. L— did not recognise her,
but compassionately handed her a chair, and requested
her to wait the return of his lady, who
was out; and then turning, he resumed his conversation
with another gentleman.

“Now, Dallas,” said he, “you are altogether
excessive and intemperate in this matter. Society
is not to be reformed by every man directing
his efforts towards his neighbour, but
by every man taking care of himself. It is you
and I, my dear sir, who must begin with ourselves,
and every other man must do the same;
and then society will be effectually reformed.
Now this modern way, by which every man considers
it his duty to attend to the spiritual matters
of his next-door neighbour, is taking the
business at the wrong end altogether. It makes
a vast deal of appearance, but it does very little
good.”

“But suppose your neighbour feels no disposition
to attend to his own improvement—what
then?”

“Why, then it is his own concern, and not
mine. What my Maker requires is, that I do
my duty, and not fret about my neighbour's.”

“But, my friend, that is the very question.
What is the duty your Maker requires? Does
it not include some regard to your neighbour,
some care and thought for his interest and improvement?”

“Well, well, I do that by setting a good example.
I do not mean by example what you
do—that is, that I am to stop drinking wine because
it may lead him to drink brandy, any more
than that I must stop eating because he may
eat too much and become a dyspeptic—but that
I am to use my wine, and everything else, temperately
and decently, and thus set him a good
example.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the
return of Mrs. L—. It recalled, in all its
freshness, to the mind of Augusta the days
when both she and her husband had thus spoken
and thought.

Ah, how did these sentiments appear to her
now, lonely, helpless, forlorn—the wife of a ruined
husband—the mother of more than orphan
children. How different from what they seemed,
when, secure in ease, in wealth, in gratified
affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the common
phraseology, “Why must people concern
themselves so much in their neighbours' affairs?
Let every man mind his own business.”

Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L—
the fine sewing for which she came, and left the
room.

“Ellen,” said Mr. L— to his wife, “that
poor woman must be in trouble of some kind
or other. You must go some time, and see if
anything can be done for her.”

“How singular!” said Mrs. L—; “she reminds
me all the time of Augusta Howard. You
remember her, my dear?”

“Yes, poor thing! and her husband too.
That was a shocking affair of Edward Howard's.
I hear that he became an intemperate,
worthless fellow. Who could have thought it!”

“But you recollect, my dear,” said Mrs.
L—, “I predicted it six months before it
was talked of. You remember, at the wine-party
which you gave after Mary's wedding, he
was so excited that he was hardly decent. I
mentioned then that he was getting into dangerous
ways. But he was such an excitable
creature, that two or three glasses would put
him quite beside himself. And there is George
Eldon, who takes off his ten or twelve glasses,
and no one suspects it.”

“Well, it was a great pity,” replied Mr.
L—; “Howard was worth a dozen George
Eldons.”

“Do you suppose,” said Dallas, who had listened
thus far in silence, “that if he had moved
in a circle where it was the universal custom
to banish all stimulating drinks, he would thus
have fallen?”

“I cannot say,” said Mr. L—; “perhaps
not.”

Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and
leisure, and of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament.
Whatever engaged him absorbed
his whole soul; and of late years, his mind
had become deeply engaged in schemes of philanthropy
for the improvement of his fellow-men.
He had, in his benevolent ministrations,
often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was
deeply interested in the pale and patient wife
and mother. He made acquaintance with her
through the aid of her children, and, in one way
and another, learned particulars of their history
that awakened the deepest interest and concern.
None but a mind as sanguine as his would have
dreamed of attempting to remedy such hopeless
misery by the reformation of him who was
its cause. But such a plan had actually occurred
to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs.
L— recalled the idea, and he soon found that
his projected protegée was the very Edward
Howard whose early history was thus disclosed.

He learned all the minutiæ from these his
early associates without disclosing his aim, and
left them still more resolved upon his benevolent
plan.

He watched his opportunity when Edward
was free from the influence of stimulus, and it
was just after the loss of his children had called
forth some remains of his better nature.
Gradually and kindly he tried to touch the
springs of his mind, and awaken some of its
buried sensibilities.

“It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me,”
said Edward, when one day, with the strong
eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the motives
for attempting reformation; “you might
as well try to reclaim the lost in hell. Do
you think,” he continued, in a wild, determined
manner, “do you think I do not know all you
can tell me? I have it all by heart, sir; no one
can preach such discourses as I can on this subject:
I know all—believe all—as the devils believe
and tremble.”

“Ay, but,” said Dallas, “to you there is hope;
you are not to ruin yourself forever.”

“And who the devil are you, to speak to me
in this way?” said Edward, looking up from his
sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not
of hope.

“God's messenger to you, Edward Howard,”
said Dallas, fixing his keen eye upon him solemnly;
“to you, Edward Howard; who have
thrown away talents, hope, and health—who
have blasted the heart of your wife, and beggared
your suffering children. To you I am
the messenger of your God—by me he offers
health, and hope, and self-respect, and the regard
of your fellow-men. You may heal the
broken heart of your wife, and give back a father
to your helpless children. Think of it,
Howard: what if it were possible? only suppose
it. What would it be again to feel yourself
a man, beloved and respected as you once
were, with a happy home, a cheerful wife, and
smiling little ones? Think how you could repay
your poor wife for all her tears! What
hinders you from gaining all this?”

“Just what hindered the rich man in hell—
`between us there is a great gulf fixed;' it lies
between me and all that is good; my wife, my
children, my hope of heaven, are all on the other
side.”

“Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard,
what would you give to be a temperate man?”

“What would I give?” said Howard—he
thought for a moment, and burst into tears.

“Ah, I see how it is,” said Dallas; “you
need a friend, and God has sent you one.”

“What can you do for me, Mr. Dallas?” said
Edward, in a tone of wonder at the confidence
of his assurances.

“I will tell you what I can do: I can take
you to my house, and give you a room, and
watch over you until the strongest temptations
are past—I can give you business again. I can
do all for you that needs to be done, if you
will give yourself to my care.”

“Oh God of mercy!” exclaimed the unhappy
man, “is there hope for me? I cannot believe
it possible; but take me where you choose—I
will follow and obey.”

A few hours witnessed the transfer of the
lost husband to one of the retired apartments
in the elegant mansion of Dallas, where he
found his anxious and grateful wife still stationed
as his watchful guardian.

Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful
employment, simple food, and pure water, were
connected with a personal supervision by Dallas,
which, while gently and politely sustained,
at first amounted to actual imprisonment.

For a time the reaction from the sudden suspension
of habitual stimulus was dreadful, and
even with tears did the unhappy man entreat
to be permitted to abandon the undertaking.
But the resolute steadiness of Dallas and the

tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is
true that he might be said to be saved “so as
by fire;” for a fever, and a long and fierce delirium,
wasted him almost to the borders of the
grave.

But, at length, the struggle between life and
death was over, and though it left him stretched
on the bed of sickness, emaciated and weak,
yet he was restored to his right mind, and was
conscious of returning health. Let any one
who has laid a friend in the grave, and known
what it is to have the heart fail with longing
for them day by day, imagine the dreamy
and unreal joy of Augusta when she began
again to see in Edward the husband so long
lost to her. It was as if the grave had given
back the dead!

“Augusta!” said he, faintly, as, after a long
and quiet sleep, he awoke free from delirium.
She bent over him. “Augusta, I am redeemed
— I am saved — I feel in myself that I am
made whole.”

The high heart of Augusta melted at these
words. She trembled and wept. Her husband
wept also, and after a pause he continued:

“It is more than being restored to this life—
I feel that it is the beginning of eternal life.
It is the Saviour who sought me out, and I know
that he is able to keep me from falling.”

But we will draw a veil over a scene which
words have little power to paint.

“Pray, Dallas,” said Mr. L—, one day,
“who is that fine-looking young man whom I
met in your office this morning? I thought
his face seemed familiar.”

“It is a Mr. Howard—a young lawyer whom
I have lately taken into business with me.”

“Strange! Impossible!” said Mr. L—.
“Surely this cannot be the Howard that I once
knew?”

“I believe he is,” said Mr. Dallas.

“Why, I thought he was gone—dead and
done over, long ago, with intemperance.”

“He was so; few have ever sunk lower; but
he now promises even to outdo all that was
hoped of him.”

“Strange! Why, Dallas, what did bring
about this change?”

“I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came
about, to you, Mr. L—, as there undoubtedly
was a great deal of `interference with other
men's matters' in the business. In short, the
young man fell in the way of one of those
meddlesome fellows, who go prowling about,
distributing tracts, forming temperance societies,
and all that sort of stuff.”

“Come, come, Dallas,” said Mr. L—, smiling,
“I must hear the story, for all that.”

“First call with me at this house,” said Dallas,
stopping before the door of a neat little
mansion. They were soon in the parlour. The
first sight that met their eyes was Edward
Howard, who, with a cheek glowing with exercise,
was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while
Augusta was watching his motions, her face
radiant with smiles.

“Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L—
an old acquaintance, I believe.”

There was a moment of mutual embarrassment
and surprise, soon dispelled, however, by
the frank cordiality of Edward. Mr. L— sat
down, but could scarce withdraw his eyes from
the countenance of Augusta, in whose eloquent
face he recognised a beauty of a higher cast
than even in her earlier days.

He glanced about the apartment. It was
simply, but tastefully furnished, and wore an
air of retired, domestic comfort. There were
books, engravings, and musical instruments.
Above all, there were four happy, healthy looking
children, pursuing studies or sports at the
farther end of the room.

After a short call they regained the street.

“Dallas, you are a happy man,” said Mr.
L—; “that family will be a mine of jewels
to you.”

He was right. Every soul saved from pollution
and ruin is a jewel to him that reclaims
it, whose lustre only eternity can disclose; and
therefore it is written, “They that be wise
shall shine as the brightness of the firmament,
and they that turn many to righteousness, as
the stars forever and ever.”