Complete Prose Works

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But what excited the boy's attention more than any other object was
an individual, seated on one of the benches opposite, who, though
evidently enjoying the spree as much as if he were an old hand at
such business, seem' d in every other particular to be far out of his
element. His appearance was youthful. He might have been twenty-one
or two years old. His countenance was intelligent, and had the air
of city life and society. He was dress'd not gaudily, but in every
respect fashionably; his coat being of the finest broadcloth, his
linen delicate and spotless as snow, and his whole aspect that of one
whose counterpart may now and then be seen upon the pave in Broadway
of a fine afternoon. He laugh'd and talk'd with the rest, and it must
be confess'd his jokes--like the most of those that pass'd current
there--were by no means distinguish'd for their refinement or purity.
Near the door was a small table, cover'd with decanters and glasses,
some of which had been used, but were used again indiscriminately, and
a box of very thick and very long cigars.

One of the sailors--and it was he who made the largest share of the
hubbub--had but one eye. His chin and cheeks were cover'd with huge,
bushy whiskers, and altogether he had quite a brutal appearance.
"Come, boys," said this gentleman, "come, let us take a drink. I know
you're all a getting dry;" and he clench'd his invitation with an
appalling oath. This politeness was responded to by a general moving
of the company toward the table holding the before-mention'd decanters
and glasses. Clustering there around, each one help'd himself to a
very handsome portion of that particular liquor which suited his
fancy; and steadiness and accuracy being at that moment by no means
distinguishing traits of the arms and legs of the party, a goodly
amount of the fluid was spill'd upon the floor. This piece of
extravagance excited the ire of the personage who gave the "treat;"
and that ire was still further increas'd when he discover'd two or
three loiterers who seem'd disposed to slight his request to drink.
Charles, as we have before mention'd, was looking in at the window.

"Walk up, boys! walk up! If there be any skulker among us, blast my
eyes if he shan't go down on his marrow bones and taste the liquor we
have spilt! Hallo!" he exclaim'd as he spied Charles; "hallo, you chap
in the window, come here and take a sup."

As he spoke he stepp'd to the open casement, put his brawny hands
under the boy's arms, and lifted him into the room bodily.

"There, my lads," said he, turning to his companions, "there's a new
recruit for you. Not so coarse a one, either," he added as he took a
fair view of the boy, who, though not what is called pretty, was fresh
and manly looking, and large for his age.

"Come, youngster, take a glass," he continued. And he pour'd one
nearly full of strong brandy.

Now Charles was not exactly frighten'd, for he was a lively fellow,
and had often been at the country merry-makings, and at the parties
of the place; but he was certainly rather abash'd at his abrupt
introduction to the midst of strangers. So, putting the glass aside,
he look'd up with a pleasant smile in his new acquaintance's face.

"I've no need for anything now," he said, "but I'm just as much
obliged to you as if I was."

"Poh! man, drink it down," rejoin'd the sailor, "drink it down--it
won't hurt you."

And, by way of showing its excellence, the one-eyed worthy drain'd
it himself to the last drop. Then filling it again, he renew'd his
efforts to make the lad go through the same operation.

"I've no occasion. Besides, _my mother has often pray'd me not to
drink,_ and I promised to obey her."

A little irritated by his continued refusal, the sailor, with a loud
oath, declared that Charles should swallow the brandy, whether he
would or no. Placing one of his tremendous paws on the back of the
boy's head, with the other he thrust the edge of the glass to his
lips, swearing at the same time, that if he shook it so as to spill
its contents the consequences would be of a nature by no means
agreeable to his back and shoulders. Disliking the liquor, and angry
at the attempt to overbear him, the undaunted child lifted his hand
and struck the arm of the sailor with a blow so sudden that
the glass fell and was smash'd to pieces on the floor; while the
brandy was about equally divided between the face of Charles, the
clothes of the sailor, and the sand. By this time the whole of the
company had their attention drawn to the scene. Some of them laugh'd
when they saw Charles's undisguised antipathy to the drink; but they
laugh'd still more heartily when he discomfited the sailor. All of
them, however, were content to let the matter go as chance would have
it--all but the young man of the black coat, who has been spoken of.

What was there in the words which Charles had spoken that carried the
mind of the young man back to former times--to a period when he was
more pure and innocent than now? "_My mother has often pray'd me not
to drink!_" Ah, how the mist of months roll'd aside, and presented to
his soul's eye the picture of _his_ mother, and a prayer of exactly
similar purport! Why was it, too, that the young man's heart moved
with a feeling of kindness toward the harshly treated child?

Charles stood, his cheek flush'd and his heart throbbing, wiping
the trickling drops from his face with a handkerchief. At first the
sailor, between his drunkenness and his surprise, was much in the
condition of one suddenly awaken'd out of a deep sleep, who cannot
call his consciousness about him. When he saw the state of things,
however, and heard the jeering laugh of his companions, his dull eye
lighting up with anger, fell upon the boy who had withstood him. He
seized Charles with a grip of iron, and with the side of his heavy
boot gave him a sharp and solid kick. He was about repeating the
performance--for the child hung like a rag in his grasp--but all of a
sudden his ears rang, as if pistols were snapp'd close to them; lights
of various hues flicker'd in his eye, (he had but one, it will be
remember'd,) and a strong propelling power caused him to move from his
position, and keep moving until he was brought up by the wall. A blow,
a cuff given in such a scientific manner that the hand from which it
proceeded was evidently no stranger to the pugilistic art, had been
suddenly planted in the ear of the sailor. It was planted by the young
man of the black coat. He had watch'd with interest the proceeding
of the sailor and the boy--two or three times he was on the point of
interfering; but when the kick was given, his rage was uncontrollable.
He sprang from his seat in the attitude of a boxer--struck the sailor
in a manner to cause those unpleasant sensations which have been
described--and would probably have follow'd up the attack, had not
Charles, now thoroughly terrified, clung around his legs and prevented
his advancing.

The scene was a strange one, and for the time quite a silent one. The
company had started from their seats, and for a moment held breathless
but strain'd positions. In the middle of the room stood the young man,
in his not at all ungraceful attitude--every nerve out, and his eyes
flashing brilliantly.

He seem'd rooted like a rock; and clasping him, with an appearance of
confidence in his protection, clung the boy.

"You scoundrel!" cried the young man, his voice thick with passion,
"dare to touch the boy again, and I'll thrash you till no sense is
left in your body."

The sailor, now partially recover'd, made some gestures of a
belligerent nature.

"Come on, drunken brute!" continued the angry youth; "I wish you
would! You've not had half what you deserve!"

Upon sobriety and sense more fully taking their power in the brains of
the one-eyed mariner, however, that worthy determined in his own mind
that it would be most prudent to let the matter drop. Expressing
therefore his conviction to that effect, adding certain remarks to the
purport that he "meant no harm to the lad," that he was surprised
at such a gentleman being angry at "a little piece of fun," and so
forth--he proposed that the company should go on with their jollity
just as if nothing had happen'd. In truth, he of the single eye was
not a bad fellow at heart, after all; the fiery enemy whose advances
he had so often courted that night, had stolen away his good feelings,
and set busy devils at work within him, that might have made his hands
do some dreadful deed, had not the stranger interposed.

In a few minutes the frolic of the party was upon its former footing.
The young man sat down upon one of the benches, with the boy by his
side, and while the rest were loudly laughing and talking, they
two convers'd together. The stranger learn'd from Charles all the
particulars of his simple story--how his father had died years
since--how his mother work' d hard for a bare living--and how
he himself, for many dreary months, had been the servant of a
hard-hearted, avaricious master. More and more interested, drawing the
child close to his side, the young man listen'd to his plainly told
history--and thus an hour pass'd away.

It was now past midnight. The young man told Charles that on the
morrow he would take steps to relieve him from his servitude--that for
the present night the landlord would probably give him a lodging at
the inn--and little persuading did the host need for that.

As he retired to sleep, very pleasant thoughts filled the mind of the
young man--thoughts of a worthy action perform'd--thoughts, too, newly
awakened ones, of walking in a steadier and wiser path than formerly.

That roof, then, sheltered two beings that night--one of them innocent
and sinless of all wrong--the other--oh, to that other what evil had
not been present, either in action or to his desires!

Who was the stranger? To those that, from ties of relationship or
otherwise, felt an interest in him, the answer to that question was
not pleasant to dwell upon. His name was Langton--parentless--a
dissipated young man--a brawler--one whose too frequent companions
were rowdies, blacklegs, and swindlers. The New York police offices
were not strangers to his countenance. He had been bred to the
profession of medicine; besides, he had a very respectable income,
and his house was in a pleasant street on the west side of the city.
Little of his time, however, did Mr. John Langton spend at his
domestic hearth; and the elderly lady who officiated as his
housekeeper was by no means surprised to have him gone for a week or a
month at a time, and she knowing nothing of his whereabouts.

Living as he did, the young man was an unhappy being. It was not so
much that his associates were below his own capacity--for Langton,
though sensible and well bred, was not highly talented or refined--but
that he lived without any steady purpose, that he had no one to
attract him to his home, that he too easily allow'd himself to be
tempted--which caused his life to be, of late, one continued scene of
dissatisfaction. This dissatisfaction he sought to drive away by the
brandy bottle, and mixing in all kinds of parties where the object
was pleasure. On the present occasion he had left the city a few days
before, and passing his time at a place near the village where Charles
and his mother lived. He fell in, during the day, with those who were
his companions of the tavern spree; and thus it happen'd that they
were all together. Langton hesitated not to make himself at home with
any associate that suited his fancy.

The next morning the poor widow rose from her sleepless cot; and from
that lucky trait in our nature which makes one extreme follow another,
she set about her toil with a lighten'd heart. Ellis, the farmer,
rose, too, short as the nights were, an hour before day; for his god
was gain, and a prime article of his creed was to get as much work as
possible from every one around him. In the course of the day Ellis was
called upon by young Langton, and never perhaps in his life was the
farmer puzzled more than at the young man's proposal--his desire
to provide for the widow's family, a family that could do him no
pecuniary good, and his willingness to disburse money for that
purpose. The widow, too, was called upon, not only on that day, but
the next and the next.

It needs not that I should particularize the subsequent events of
Langton's and the boy's history--how the reformation of the profligate
might be dated to begin from that time--how he gradually sever'd the
guilty ties that had so long gall'd him--how he enjoy'd his own home
again--how the friendship of Charles and himself grew not slack with
time--and how, when in the course of seasons he became head of a
family of his own, he would shudder at the remembrance of his early
dangers and his escapes.

LINGAVE'S TEMPTATION

"Another day," utter'd the poet Lingave, as he awoke in the morning,
and turn'd him drowsily on his hard pallet, "another day comes out,
burthen'd with its weight of woes. Of what use is existence to me?
Crush'd down beneath the merciless heel of poverty, and no promise of
hope to cheer me on, what have I in prospect but a life neglected and
a death of misery?"

The youth paused; but receiving no answer to his questions, thought
proper to continue the peevish soliloquy. "I am a genius, they say,"
and the speaker smiled bitterly, "but genius is not apparel and food.
Why should I exist in the world, unknown, unloved, press'd with cares,
while so many around me have all their souls can desire? I behold the
splendid equipages roll by--I see the respectful bow at the presence
of pride--and I curse the contrast between my own lot, and the fortune
of the rich. The lofty air--the show of dress--the aristocratic
demeanor--the glitter of jewels--dazzle my eyes; and sharp-tooth'
d envy works within me. I hate these haughty and favor'd ones. Why
should my path be so much rougher than theirs? Pitiable, unfortunate
man that I am! to be placed beneath those whom in my heart I
despise--and to be constantly tantalized with the presence of that
wealth I cannot enjoy!" And the poet cover'd his eyes with his hands,
and wept from very passion and fretfulness.

O, Lingave! be more of a man! Have you not the treasures of health and
untainted propensities, which many of those you envy never enjoy? Are
you not their superior in mental power, in liberal views of mankind,
and in comprehensive intellect? And even allowing you the choice,
how would you shudder at changing, in total, conditions with them!
Besides, were you willing to devote all your time and energies, you
could gain property too: squeeze, and toil, and worry, and twist
everything into a matter of profit, and you can become a great man, as
far as money goes to make greatness.

Retreat, then, man of the polish'd soul, from those irritable
complaints against your lot-those longings for wealth and puerile
distinction, not worthy your class. Do justice, philosopher, to your
own powers. While the world runs after its shadows and its bubbles,
(thus commune in your own mind,) we will fold ourselves in our circle
of understanding, and look with an eye of apathy on those things it
considers so mighty and so enviable. Let the proud man pass with his
pompous glance--let the gay flutter in finery--let the foolish enjoy
his folly, and the beautiful move on in his perishing glory; we will
gaze without desire on all their possessions, and all their pleasures.
Our destiny is different from theirs. Not for such as we, the lowly
flights of their crippled wings. We acknowledge no fellow-ship with
them in ambition. We composedly look down on the paths where they
walk, and pursue our own, without uttering a wish to descend, and be
as they. What is it to us that the mass pay us not that deference
which wealth commands? We desire no applause, save the applause of the
good and discriminating--the choice spirits among men. Our intellect
would be sullied, were the vulgar to approximate to it, by professing
to readily enter in, and praising it. Our pride is a towering, and
thrice refined pride.

When Lingave had given way to his temper some half hour, or
thereabout, he grew more calm, and bethought himself that he was
acting a very silly part. He listen'd a moment to the clatter of the
carts, and the tramp of early passengers on the pave below, as they
wended along to commence their daily toil. It was just sunrise, and
the season was summer. A little canary bird, the only pet poor Lingave
could afford to keep, chirp'd merrily in its cage on the wall. How
slight a circumstance will sometimes change the whole current of our
thoughts! The music of that bird abstracting the mind of the poet but
a moment from his sorrows, gave a chance for his natural buoyancy to
act again.

Lingave sprang lightly from his bed, and perform'd his ablutions and
his simple toilet--then hanging the cage on a nail outside the window,
and speaking an endearment to the songster, which brought a perfect
flood of melody in return--he slowly passed through his door,
descended the long narrow turnings of the stairs, and stood in the
open street. Undetermin'd as to any particular destination, he folded
his hands behind him, cast his glance upon the ground, and moved
listlessly onward.

Hour after hour the poet walk'd along--up this street and down
that--he reck'd not how or where. And as crowded thoroughfares are
hardly the most fit places for a man to let his fancy soar in the
clouds--many a push and shove and curse did the dreamer get bestow'd
upon him.

The booming of the city clock sounded forth the hour twelve--high
noon.

"Ho! Lingave!" cried a voice from an open basement window as the poet
pass'd.

He stopp'd, and then unwittingly would have walked on still, not fully
awaken'd from his reverie.

"Lingave, I say!" cried the voice again, and the person to whom the
voice belong'd stretch'd his head quite out into the area in front,
"Stop man. Have you forgotten your appointment?"

"Oh! ah!" said the poet, and he smiled unmeaningly, and descending
the steps, went into the office of Ridman, whose call it was that had
startled him in his walk.

Who was Ridman? While the poet is waiting the convenience of that
personage, it may be as well to describe him.

Ridman was a _money-maker_. He had much penetration, considerable
knowledge of the world, and a disposition to be constantly in the
midst of enterprise, excitement, and stir. His schemes for gaining
wealth were various; he had dipp'd into almost every branch and
channel of business. A slight acquaintance of several years' standing
subsisted between him and the poet. The day previous a boy had call'd
with a note from Ridman to Lingave, desiring the presence of the
latter at the money-maker's room. The poet return'd for answer that he
would be there. This was the engagement which he came near breaking.

Ridman had a smooth tongue. All his ingenuity was needed in the
explanation to his companion of why and wherefore the latter had been
sent for.

It is not requisite to state specifically the offer made by the man
of wealth to the poet. Ridman, in one of his enterprises, found it
necessary to procure the aid of such a person as Lingave--a writer of
power, a master of elegant diction, of fine taste, in style passionate
yet pure, and of the delicate imagery that belongs to the children
of song. The youth was absolutely startled at the magnificent and
permanent remuneration which was held out to him for a moderate
exercise of his talents.

But the _nature_ of the service required! All the sophistry and art of
Ridman could not veil its repulsiveness. The poet was to labor for the
advancement of what he felt to be unholy--he was to inculcate what
would lower the perfection of man. He promised to give an answer to
the proposal the succeeding day, and left the place.

Now during the many hours there was a war going on in the heart of the
poor poet. He was indeed poor; often he had no certainty whether he
should be able to procure the next day's meals. And the poet knew
the beauty of truth, and adored, not in the abstract merely, but in
practice, the excellence of upright principles.

Night came. Lingave, wearied, lay upon his pallet again and slept. The
misty veil thrown over him, the spirit of poesy came to his visions,
and stood beside him, and look'd down pleasantly with her large eyes,
which were bright and liquid like the reflection of stars in a lake.

Virtue, (such imagining, then, seem'd conscious to the soul of the
dreamer,) is ever the sinew of true genius. Together, the two in one,
they are endow'd with immortal strength, and approach loftily to Him
from whom both spring. Yet there are those that having great powers,
bend them to the slavery of wrong. God forgive them! for they surely
do it ignorantly or heedlessly. Oh, could he who lightly tosses around
him the seeds of evil in his writings, or his enduring thoughts, or
his chance words--could he see how, haply, they are to spring up
in distant time and poison the air, and putrefy, and cause to
sicken--would he not shrink back in horror? A bad principle, jestingly
spoken--a falsehood, but of a word--may taint a whole nation! Let the
man to whom the great Master has given the might of mind, beware how
he uses that might. If for the furtherance of bad ends, what can
be expected but that, as the hour of the closing scene draws nigh,
thoughts of harm done, and capacities distorted from their proper aim,
and strength so laid out that men must be worse instead of better,
through the exertion of that strength--will come and swarm like
spectres around him?

"Be and continue poor, young man," so taught one whose counsels should
be graven on the heart of every youth, "while others around you grow
rich by fraud and disloyalty. Be without place and power, while others
beg their way upward. Bear the pain of disappointed hopes, while
others gain the accomplishment of their flattery. Forego the gracious
pressure of a hand, for which others cringe and crawl. Wrap
yourself in your own virtue, and seek a friend and your daily bread.
If you have, in such a course, grown gray with unblench'd honor, bless
God and die."

When Lingave awoke the next morning, he despatch'd his answer to his
wealthy friend, and then plodded on as in the days before.

LITTLE JANE

"Lift up!" was ejaculated as a signal! and click! went the glasses in
the hands of a party of tipsy men, drinking one night at the bar
of one of the middling order of taverns. And many a wild gibe was
utter'd, and many a terrible blasphemy, and many an impure phrase
sounded out the pollution of the hearts of these half-crazed
creatures, as they toss'd down their liquor, and made the walls echo
with their uproar. The first and foremost in recklessness was a
girlish-faced, fair-hair'd fellow of twenty-two or three years. They
called him Mike. He seem'd to be look'd upon by the others as a sort
of prompter, from whom they were to take cue. And if the brazen
wickedness evinced by him in a hundred freaks and remarks to his
companions, during their stay in that place, were any test of his
capacity--there might hardly be one more fit to go forward as a guide
on the road of destruction. From the conversation of the party, it
appear'd that they had been spending the early part of the evening in
a gambling house.

A second, third and fourth time were the glasses fill'd; and the
effect thereof began to be perceiv'd in a still higher degree of noise
and loquacity among the revellers. One of the serving-men came in
at this moment, and whisper'd the barkeeper, who went out, and in a
moment return'd again. "A person," he said, "wish'd to speak with Mr.
Michael. He waited on the walk in front."

The individual whose name was mention'd, made his excuses to the
others, telling them he would be back in a moment, and left the room.
As he shut the door behind him, and stepp'd into the open air, he saw
one of his brothers--his elder by eight or ten years--pacing to and
fro with rapid and uneven steps. As the man turn'd in his walk,
and the glare of the street lamp fell upon his face, the youth,
half-benumb'd as his senses were, was somewhat startled at its
paleness and evident perturbation. "Come with me!" said the elder
brother, hurriedly, "the illness of our little Jane is worse, and I
have been sent for you."

"Poh!" answered the young drunkard, very composedly, "is that all? I
shall be home by-and-by," and he turn'd back again.

"But, brother, she is worse than ever before. Perhaps when you arrive
she may be dead."

The tipsy one paus'd in his retreat, perhaps alarm'd at the utterance
of that dread word, which seldom fails to shoot a chill to the hearts
of mortals. But he soon calm'd himself, and waving his hand to the
other: "Why, see," said he, "a score of times at least, have I been
call'd away to the last sickness of our good little sister; and each
time it proves to be nothing worse than some whim of the nurse or
physician. Three years has the girl been able to live very heartily
under her disease; and I'll be bound she'll stay on earth three years
longer."