A THANKSGIVING STORY.
A MAN, who at first sight, a casual observer would have thought atleast forty or fifty years of age, came creeping out of an old,miserable-looking tenement in the lower part of Cincinnati, a littlewhile after night-fall, and, with bent body and shuffling gait,crossed the street an angle; and, after pausing for a few momentsbefore a mean frame building, in the windows of which decanters ofliquor were temptingly displayed, pushed open the door and entered.
It was early in November. Already the leaves had fallen, and therewas, in the aspect of nature, a desolateness that mirrored itself inthe feelings. Night had come, hiding all this, yet by no meansobliterating the impression which had been made, but measurablyincreasing it; for, with the darkness had begun to fall a mistyrain, and the rising wind moaned sadly among the eaves.
A short time after sundown the man, to whom we have just referred,came home to the comfortless-looking house we have seen him leaving.All day he had turned a wheel in a small manufactory; and when hiswork was done, he left, what to him was a prison-house, and retiredto the cheap but wretched boarding-place he had chosen, where werecongregated about a dozen men of the lowest class. He did not feelhappy. That was impossible. No one who debases himself byintemperance can be happy; and this man had gone down, step by step,until he attained a depth of degradation most sad to contemplate.And yet he was not thirty years old! After supper he went out, asusual, to spend the evening in drinking.
The man, fallen as he was, and lost to all the higher and noblersentiments of the heart, had experienced during the day a pressureupon his feelings heavier than usual, that had its origin in somereviving memories of earlier times.
The sound of his mother's voice had been in his ears frequentlythrough the day; and images of persons, places, and scenes, theremembrance of which brought no joy to his heart, had many timescome up before him. At the supper-table, amid his coarse,vulgar-minded companions, his laugh was not heard as usual; and,when spoken to, he answered briefly and in monosyllables.
The tippling-house to which the man went to spend his day's earningsand debase himself with drink, was one of the lowest haunts of vicein the city. Gambling with cards, dominoes, and dice, occupied thetime of the greater number who made it a place of resort, and littlewas heard there except language the most obscene and profane. Forhis daily task at the wheel, the man was paid seventy-five cents aday. His boarding and lodging cost him thirty-one and a quartercents,--and this had to be paid every night under penalty of beingexpelled from the house. He was a degraded drunkard, and nottherefore worthy of confidence nor credit beyond a single day, andhe received none. What remained of the pittance earned, wasinvariably spent in drink, or gambled away before he retired fromthe grogshop for the night; when, staggering home, he groped his wayto his room, too helpless to remove his clothes, and threw himselfupon a straw pallet, that could scarcely be dignified with the nameof bed. This in outline, was the daily history of the man's life;and daily the shadows of vice fell more and more darkly upon hispath.
The drinking-house had two rooms on the first floor. In front was anarrow counter, six or eight feet in length, and behind this stood ashort, bloated, vice-disfigured image of humanity, ready to supplythe wants of customers. Two or three roughly-made pine tables, andsome chairs, stood around the room. The back apartment containedsimply chairs and tables, and was generally occupied by partiesengaged in games of chance, for small sums. Tobacco-smoke, the fumesof liquor, and the polluted breaths of the inmates, made theatmosphere of these rooms so offensive, that none but those who hadbecome accustomed to inhale it, could have endured to remain therefor a minute.
The man, on entering this den of vice, went to the counter andcalled for whisky. A decanter was set before him, and from this hepoured into a glass nearly a gill of the vilest kind of stuff anddrank it off, undiluted. About half the quantity of water was sentdown after the burning fluid, to partially subdue its ardentqualities; and then the man turned slowly from the bar. As he didso, an individual who had seen him enter, and who had kept his eyesupon him from the moment he passed through the door, came towardshim with a smile of pleasure upon his countenance, and reaching outhis hand, said, in an animated voice--
"How are you, Martin, my good fellow! How are you?"
And he grasped the poor wretch's hand with a hearty grip and shookit warmly. Something like a smile lighted up the marred and almostexpressionless face of the miserable creature, as he gave to thehand that had taken his a responsive pressure, and replied,
"Oh! very well, very well, considering all things."
"Bad night out," said the man, as he sat down near a stove, that wassending forth a genial heat.
"Yes, bad enough," returned Martin. A thought of the damp and chillyair without caused him to shiver suddenly, and draw a little nearerto the stove.
"Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, where we canspend a pleasant evening among pleasant friends, so much the more."
"Yes. It's very pleasant," said Martin, spreading himself out beforethe stove, with a hand upon each knee, and looking with anabsent-minded air, through the opening in the door, which had oncebeen closed by a thin plate of mica, and seeing strange forms in theglowing coals.
"Pleasant after a hard day's work," remarked the man, with aninsinuating air.
"I don't know what life would be worth, if seasons of recreation andsocial intercourse did not come, nightly, to relieve both body andmind from their wearisomeness and exhaustion."
"Yes--yes. It's tiresome enough to have to sit and turn a wheel allday," said Martin.
"And a relief to get into a place like this at night," returned theman, rubbing his hands with animation.
"It's a great deal better than sitting at the wheel," sighed Martin.
"I should think it was! Come! won't you liquor."
"Thank you! I've just taken something."
"No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try something more." Andhe arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.
Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followedto the counter.
"What'll you take? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits? Any thing,so it's strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?"And he leered in Martin's face with a sinister expression, andslapped him familiarly on the shoulder.
"Brandy," said Martin. "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Setout your pure old Cogniac! Toby. A drink for the gods!"
"Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of your feet!"added the, man after he had turned off his glass. "Don't you say so,Martin?"
"Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!"
"Hat ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with a forced effort. "Why,Bill Martin, you're a wit!"
"It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with moretruth than jest.
"That brandy would put life into a grindstone!"
"It's put life into our friend here, without doubt." And as the verydisinterested companion of Martin said this, he slapped him againupon the shoulder.
The two men turned from the bar and sat down again by the stove,both getting more and more familiar and chatty.
"Suppose we try a game of dominoes or chequers?" at length suggestedthe friend.
"No objection," replied Martin. "Any thing to make the time passagreeably. Suppose we say chequers?"
"Very well. Here's a board. We'll go into the backroom where it'smore quiet."
The two men retired into the little den in the rear of the bar-room,where were several parties engaged at cards or dice.
"Here's a cozy little corner," said the pleasant friend of Martin."We can be as quiet as kittens."
"What's the stake?" he next inquired, as soon as the board wasopened and the pieces distributed. "Shall we say a bit?"
Martin received, at the close of each day, his earnings. Of hisseventy-five cents, he had already paid out for board thirty-one anda quarter cents; and for a glass of liquor and some tobacco, sixcents more. So he had but thirty-seven and a half cents. This sum hedrew from his pocket, and counted over with scrupulous accuracy, soas to be sure of the amount. While he was doing so, his companion'seyes were fixed eagerly upon the small coins in his hands, in order,likewise, to ascertain their sum.
"A bit let it be." And the man laid down a twelve-and-a-half-centpiece.
"No! We'll start with a picayune," said Martin, selecting thesmaller coin and placing it on the table.
"That's too trifling. Say a bit," returned the man, but halfconcealing the eager impatience he felt to get hold of the poorwretch's money.
"Well, I don't care! Call it a bit, then," said Martin. And the coinwas staked.
An observer would have been struck with the change that now cameover Martin. His dull eyes brightened; something like light cameflashing into his almost expressionless face, and his lips archedwith the influx of new life and feeling. He moved his pieces on theboard with the promptness and skill of one accustomed to the game,and, though he played with an opponent whose clearer head gave himan advantage, he yet held his own with remarkable pertinacity, andwas not beaten until after a long and well-balanced struggle. Butbeaten he was; and one-third of all he possessed in the world passedfrom his hand.
Another twelve-and-a-half-cent piece was staked, and, in likemanner, lost.
"I can't go but a picayune this time," said Martin, when the pieceswere arranged for the third game. "My funds are getting too low."
"Very well, a picayune let it be. Any thing just to give a littleinterest to the game. I'm sure you'll win this time."
And win Martin did. This elated him. He played another game andlost. The next was no more successful. Only a single picayune nowremained. For a short time he hesitated about risking this. Hewanted more liquor; and, if he lost, there would be no means left togratify the ever burning thirst that consumed him. Not until theclose of the next day would he receive any money; and, withoutmoney, he could get nothing. There were unpaid scores against him ina dozen shops.
"Try again. Don't be afraid. You're a better player than I am.You'll be sure to win. Luck lies in the last sixpence. Don't youknow that?"
Thus urged, Martin put down the last small remnant of his day'searnings. The interest taken in the games had nearly counteractedthe effects of the liquor, and he was, therefore, able to play witha skill nearly equal to that of his companion. Slowly andthoughtfully he made his moves, and calculated the effect of everychange in the board with as much intelligence as it was possible forhim to summon to his aid. But luck, so called, was against him. Histhree last pieces, kings, were swept from the board by a single playof his adversary, at a moment when he believed himself sure of thegame. A bitter imprecation fell from his lips, as he turned from thetable, and thrusting his hands nearly to his elbows in his pockets,stalked into the bar-room, leaving the man who had won from him theremnant of his day's earnings for the twentieth time, to enjoy thepleasures of success. This man was too much occupied in kindattentions to others who were to be his victims, to even see Martinagain during the evening.
After having lost his last farthing, the latter, feeling miserableenough, sat down at a table on which were three or four newspapers,and tried to find in them something to interest his mind. He wasnearer to being sober than he had been for many weeks. On the nightbefore, he had gambled away his last penny, and the consequence was,that he had been obliged to do without liquor all day. The effectsof the two glasses he had taken since nightfall had been almostentirely obliterated by the excitement of the petty struggle throughwhich he had passed, and his mind was, therefore, in a more thatusually disturbed state. The day had been one of troubled feelings;and the night found him less happy than he had been through the day.
As he ran his eye over the newspaper he was trying to read, pausingnow and then at a paragraph, and seeking to find in it something ofinterest, the words, "Thanksgiving in Massachusetts," arrested hisattention, He read over the few lines that followed this heading.They were a simple statement of the fact, that a certain day inNovember had been appointed as a thanksgiving day by the Governor ofMassachusetts, followed by these brief remarks by some editor whohad recorded the fact:--"How many look forward to this day as a timeof joyful re-union! And such it is to thousands of happy families.But, somehow, we always think of the vacant places that death orabsence leaves at many tables; and of the shadows that come over thefeelings of those who gather in the old homestead. Of the absent,how many are wanderers, like the poor prodigal! And how gladly wouldthey be received if they would only return, and let all the unhappypast be forgotten and forgiven! Does, by any chance, such awanderer's eye fall upon these few sentences? If so, we do earnestlyand tenderly entreat him, by the love of his mother, that is stillwith him, no matter how far he has gone from the right path, to comeback on this blessed day; and thus make the thanksgiving of thatmother's heart complete."
Every word of this appeal, which seemed as if it were addresseddirectly to himself, touched a responsive feeling in the bosom ofMartin. One after another, images of other days passed beforehim--innocent, happy days. His mother's face, his mother's voice,her very words were present with unwonted vividness. Then came therecollection of blessed re-unions on the annual Thanksgivingfestival. The rush of returning memories was too strong for thepoor, weak, depressed wanderer from home and happiness. He felt thewaters of repentance gathering in his eyes; and he drew his handsuddenly across them, with an instinctive effort to check theirflow. But a fountain, long sealed, had been touched; and, ere he wasmore than half aware of the tendency of his feelings, a tear cameforth and rested on his cheek. It was brushed away quickly. Anotherfollowed, and another. The man had lost his self-control. Into oneof the lowest haunts of vice and dissipation the voice of his motherhad come, speaking to him words of hope. Even here had her imagefollowed him, and he saw her with the old smile of love upon herface. And he saw the smile give way to looks of sorrow, and heardthe voice saying, in tones of the tenderest entreaty, "William! mypoor wanderer! come home! Come home!"
Oh! with what deep, heart-aching sincerity did the poor wretch wishthat he had never turned aside into the ways of folly. "If I couldbut go home and die!" he said, mentally.
"If I could but feel my mother's hand upon my forehead, and hear hervoice again!"
He had remained sitting at the table with the newspaper before hisface, to hide from other eyes all signs of emotion. But, the newfeelings awakened were, in no degree, congenial to the gross,depraved, and sensual sphere by which he was surrounded; and, as hehad no money left, and, therefore, no means of gratifying his thirstfor liquor, there was no inducement for him longer to breathe thepolluted atmosphere. Rising, therefore, he quietly retired; no oneasking him to stay or expressing surprise at his departure He had nomoney to spend at the bar, nor to lose at the gaming. table; and wasnot, therefore, an object of the slightest interest to any.
As Martin stepped into the street, the cold rain struck him in theface, and the chilly air penetrated his thin, tattered garments. Thedriving mist of the early evening had changed to a heavy shower, andthe street was covered with water. Through this he plunged as hecrossed over, and entered his boarding-house, dripping from head tofoot. He did not stop to speak with any one, but groped his way, inthe dark to the attic. Removing a portion of his wet clothing, hethrew himself upon his bed. He had not come to sleep, but to bealone that he might think. But thought grew so painful that he wouldfain have found relief in slumber, had that been possible.
"If I had never strayed from the right path!" he murmured, as hetossed himself uneasily. "Oh! if I had never strayed!"
"Go back?" he said, aloud, after some minutes' silence, answering tohis own thoughts. "No--no! I will not blast them by my presence. Letthem be happy."
But the wish to return, once felt, grew every moment stronger, andhe struggled against it until, at last, after hours of bitterremorse and repentance, weary nature yielded, and he fell off into amore quiet sleep than he had known for weeks. In this sleep camemany dreams, all of home, the old pleasant home, around whichclustered every happy memory of his life; and when morning came, itfound him longing to return to that home with an irrepressibledesire.
"I will go back," said he, in a firm voice, as he arose at day'sdawn, his mind clear and calm. "I will go home. Home--home!"
This proved no mere effervescence of the mind. The idea, once fullyentertained, kept possession of his thoughts. His first resolutionwas to save his earnings until he had enough to procure decentclothing and pay his passage back. A week he kept to thisresolution, not once tasting a drop of any intoxicating liquor. Butby that time he was so impatient of delay, that he changed hispurpose, and procured a situation as deck-hand on board a steamboatthat was about leaving for Pittsburg. For this service, he was toreceive three dollars for the trip, besides being furnished with hismeals. During his week of sobriety, he had been able to save twodollars. With this money he got an old pair of boots mended whichhis employer at the manufactory had given him, and had his clothesrepaired and washed, all of which materially improved hisappearance, and gave occasion for several of his fellow-workmen tospeak encouragingly, which strengthened him greatly in his goodpurpose.
During the passage up the river, Martin was subjected to manytemptations, and once or twice came near falling into his old ways.But thoughts of home came stealing into his mind at the rightmoment, and saved him.
With three dollars in his pocket, the wages he had received from thesteamboat captain, Martin started for Philadelphia on foot. He waseight days on the journey. When he arrived, his boots were wornthrough, his money all expended, and himself sick with fatigue, sadand dispirited. Luckily he met an old acquaintance, who was a handon board a schooner loading with coal for Boston. The vessel was topass through the canal, and then go by the way of Long Island Sound.Martin told his story to this old crony, who had once been a harddrinker but was now reformed, and he persuaded the captain to givehim a passage.
Just two weeks from the time of his leaving Cincinnati, Martin sawthe sails expand above him, and felt the onward movement of thevessel that was to bear him homeward. His heart swelled with sad yetpleasant emotions. It was a long time since he had heard from home;and longer still since he had seen the face of any member of hisfamily. For years he had been a wanderer. Now returning, a merewreck, so marred in every feature, and so changed, that even lovewould almost fail to recognize him, the eyes of his mind were benteagerly forward. And, as the distance grew less and less, and heattempted to realize more and more perfectly the meeting soon totake place, his heart would beat heavily in his bosom, and a dimnesscome before his mental vision.
Thanksgiving, that day of days in New England, had come round again.Among the thousands by whom it was celebrated as a festive occasion,were the Martins, who resided in a village only a few miles fromBoston. Old Mr. and Mrs. Martin had four children, two sons and twodaughters. One of the daughters remained at home. Rachel, the oldestof the daughters, was in her twenty-third year; and Martha wasnineteen. The former was married and lived in the village. Thomas,next older than Rachel, was also married. He resided ten miles away.The oldest of them all, William, was a wanderer; or, for ought theyknew to the contrary, had long since passed to his great account. Asmany as five years had gone by since there had come from him anytidings; and nearly eight years since his place had been vacant atthe Thanksgiving re-unions.
The day rose calm and bright on happy thousands. Perhaps no familyin all New England would have experienced a purer delight on thisoccasion, than that of the Martins, had not the vacant place of anabsent member reminded them of the wandering, it might be the lost.Thomas was there with his gentle wife and three bright children;Rachel with her husband and babe; and Martha with her sweet youngface, that was hardly ever guiltless of a smile. But William wasaway; and the path in which he was treading, if he were yet alive,was hidden from their view by clouds and darkness.
Dinner, that chiefest event of every Thanksgiving day, was servedimmediately after the return of the family from church. It had beenprepared by the hands of Martha, and she was in the act of taking anenormous turkey from the oven, when a man came to the door, and,without speaking a word, stood and looked at her attentively. Shenoticed him as she turned from the oven. He was a sad looking objectfor a New England village on Thanksgiving day. His eyes were sunken,his face thin and pale, and his old tattered garments hung looselyon his meager limbs. He looked like one just from a bed of sickness,and he bent, leaning upon a rough stick, like an old man yielding tothe weight of years. Yet, poor and weak as he seemed, his clotheswere clean, and his face had been recently shaven.
Struck with his appearance, Martha paused and looked at himearnestly.
"Will you let me rest here for a little while?" said the stranger,as soon as he had attracted Martha's attention.
"Oh! yes. Sit down," replied Martha, whose sympathies were instantlyawakened by the man's appearance. And she handed him a chair.
Just then, Rachel, who had taken off her things on returning fromchurch, came into the kitchen to assist Martha with the dinner. Shemerely glanced at the man; but he fixed upon her a most earnestlook, and followed her about with his eyes as she moved from onepart of the room to another.
"Martha!" called Mrs. Martin from the adjoining room. Neither of thesisters saw the start which the man gave, nor observed the quickflush that went over his face, as he turned his head in thedirection from which the sound came.
Martha ran in to see what her mother wanted. In a little while shecame back, and, as she entered the kitchen, she could not helpremarking the strange earnestness with which the man looked at her.
Presently, Mrs. Martin herself came in. She was surprised at seeingthe miserable looking object who had intruded himself upon them at atime that seemed so inopportune.
"Who is that, Martha?" she asked in a low voice, aside.
"I don't know," was answered in the same low tone--not so low,however, as to be inaudible to the quick ears of the stranger.
"What is he doing here?"
"He asked me if I would let him rest for a little while; and Icouldn't say no."
"He looks sick; and he must be very poor."
"Yes, poor, indeed!" returned Mrs. Martin with a sigh; a thought ofher own poor wanderer crossing her mind. This thought caused her toturn to the man and say to him,
"Have you been sick, my friend?"
The man who had been looking at her intently from the moment thatshe entered the room, now turned his face partly away as hereplied--
"Yes. I've been sick for a number of days, but I am better now."
"You look very poor."
"I am poor--poor indeed!"
"You do not belong to these parts?"
"I do not deserve to," replied the man, low and evasively.
"Where do your friends live?"
"I don't know that I have any friends," said the man. There was aslight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answeringly, a chord inthe heart of his questioner.
"No friends!"
"There still live those who were once my friends."
"And why not your friends now?"
The man shook his head, sadly.
"I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they have long sincecast me forth from their regard."
"Then you have no mother," said Mrs. Martin, quickly. "A mother'slove cannot die."
"I have a mother, and I have sisters," replied the man, after apause. "Feel kindly towards me for their sakes. I have wanderedlong; but I am repentant; and, now returning to my old home, Iseek--"
The voice that had been low and unsteady at the beginning, sunksobbing into silence, and the stranger's head drooped upon hisbosom. At that moment, Mr. Martin entered, and seeing the man, heexclaimed--
"Who in the world is this?"
"William?" fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, from themother's lips.
"My mother!" ejaculated the stranger, starting forward, and fallinginto her open arms.
"William--William!" said Mr. Martin. "Oh! no! It cannot be!"
"It is! Yes! It is my poor, poor boy!" replied the mother,disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and pushing him off sothat she could get a full view of his face. "Oh! William! My son! myson!" And again she hugged him wildly to her bosom.
How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy Thanksgiving day,need not be told. There was no longer a vacant place at the board;and thought turned not away, doubtingly, in a vain search for theabsent and the wandering. The long lost had been found; the strayingmember had come home. Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving festival.Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, madeglad the mother's heart that day. And it has been glad ever since,for, though Thanksgiving days have come again and again, there hasbeen no absent member since William's return.
THE END.
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