The partial reformation in James Welch, to which his father referred in the conversation with Captain Rhines, already narrated, proved to be, like too many of those delusive hopes to which fond parents cling as drowning men to straws, void of foundation; and the father, driven to extremity, and perceiving at length that much of the criminal conduct of the son lay at the door of his own indulgence, determined to use sharper measures.

He informed James that he must go to Elm Island for the summer, there struggle with his habits, in the absence of outward temptation, or leave his house forever; that his mother, utterly discouraged, had come to the same conclusion.

James Welch, who, on the 15th of June, came to Elm Island, and became an inmate of Ben’s family, was a young man of superior general ability, remarkable business talent, fine appearance, affectionate, generous disposition, although of hasty temper, and exceedingly attractive in his manners.

He was passionately fond of all out-door recreations; but a drunkard at two-and-twenty. He proved a great accession to the society on Elm Island, being an excellent singer, fond of children, and rare company for Bennie, who was lonely enough without Charlie. They all enjoyed themselves finely, sitting on the door-stone at twilight, and singing together.

It was difficult even for Ben, but especially for Sally, to credit the stories they had heard of him.

As his father had predicted, the first time he came in contact with Uncle Isaac, he conceived a liking for him, which continually increased.

He soon learned to manage a boat; and Captain Rhines let him take his, and keep her at the island, although he took the precaution, unknown to Welch, to cut her sails down.

He would take this boat, and go over to Uncle Isaac’s Point; if he was working, off coat, and help him, in order that Uncle Isaac might be able to fish or hunt with him.

He was naturally of a mechanical turn, and would amuse himself in the shop with the tools. Indeed, he was, with one exception, universally liked. He could not make friends with Tige, and never dared to go to Captain Rhines’s in the evening. With Sailor and Uncle Isaac’s Watch he was a sworn friend; but Tige would have nothing to do with him, and it was by no means safe to force attentions upon Tige.

His attenuated limbs became round and plump with muscle; his haggard cheeks began to crimson; his step regained the elasticity, and his eye the fire, of youth, which seemed forever to have departed.

Uncle Isaac said he was as fine-looking and good-hearted a fellow as ever the sun shone upon.

He learned, after upsetting several times, to manage the birch. Uncle Isaac permitted him to keep her at the island. Thus he had two boats, and when it was calm, would take her, paddle over to the main, and up the river, following all its windings. In one of these excursions, he discovered Pleasant Cove. Enraptured with the beauty of the spot, he carried his canoe around the fall, and paddled up the brook into the pond.

“Ben,” said he, on his return, “I have known people spend thousands of dollars to make a beautiful place, and not obtain anything half so fine as the place I have seen to-day. I mean to ask father to buy it. Would Charlie sell it?”

“When he sells himself,” replied Sally. “Besides, there’s another party as much attached to it as he is.”

“Well, I mean to sketch it, at any rate.”

Matters went on thus pleasantly for some time. James would often start off, taking a luncheon, fishing-lines, cooking utensils, and be gone a day or two, sometimes longer, camping in the woods, sleeping at Captain Rhines’s or Uncle Isaac’s, just as it happened. Sometimes the first thing they would know of him, he would make his appearance at the breakfast-table, having come across in the night.

His parents, who were informed of his good doings by Captain Rhines, and especially of his friendship with Uncle Isaac, with that parental credulity ever prone to catch at the shadow of a hope, were greatly encouraged.

“No one,” wrote his father, in reply, “could like Uncle Isaac so well as I know he does unless there was some good in them, and some hope of them.”

Captain Rhines shook his head. He had seen, in a life spent at sea, too much of the strength of the appetite for liquor to leap at conclusions.

One morning after breakfast, as Ben was going to the field, he saw James, as they now called him, paddling out of the cove in the birch. Two days after, about ten o’clock in the forenoon, Uncle Isaac espied from his point the birch half way over to Elm Island. She was apparently empty, drifting down the bay with the tide.

He waited a while, and seeing no one coming after her, took his boat, and pulled off, when he found James Welch flat on his back in the bottom of her, and an empty bottle beside him. He was completely stupefied with liquor. It appeared afterwards that he had gone along shore gunning, camped a night in the woods, and the next afternoon came upon some men who were making potash, and well provided with liquor. They offered him some. This awoke the slumbering appetite. He bought a bottle, and kept drinking. Through the aid of that Providence which seems to watch over drunkards, he made out to get into the birch, and push off, when becoming helpless, the tide was drifting him to sea. Uncle Isaac, with a sad heart, towed the birch, with its occupant, to the island. Ben took him up in his arms, carried him to the house, and laid him on the bed.

Sally, who had felt greatly encouraged, was affected to tears.

“Stop to dinner, Uncle Isaac.”

“I’ll stop and rest, and cool off, Benjamin; but as for eating, this thing has taken away all my appetite.”

“I’m sorry for his poor parents; but I’m afraid it’s no use.”

“O, Ben, it’s too much! It’s more than I can bear to see so fine a young fellow go to ruin right before my eyes! We’ve done all that can be done in the way of counsel, coaxing, and kindness. I mean to give him a dose of quicksilver.”

When James Welch recovered his senses, his reflections were most harrowing. Having formed a strong and healthy attachment to Ben and his family, he was deeply mortified when he reflected upon the exhibition he had made of himself before them. But he was, most of all, attached to Uncle Isaac, and loved him with all his heart. How he got back to the island, whether Uncle Isaac knew what had taken place, were questions he could not solve, and was too proud to ask.

He went to the cove. The birch was there. He then concluded that Ben went in search of and picked him up; that Uncle Isaac knew nothing about it, and had half a mind to go over and see him; but he was by no means sure that Ben would permit it. His pride inclined him to remain where he was, rather than ask or attempt to go and be prevented. Ben had not made the most distant allusion to his conduct; but he saw he kept his eye on him, and knew he was in the hands of a giant.

He wandered over the island a day or two, miserable enough, and for the first time in his life really sorry for his acts. While in this state of suspense and misery, uncertain whether he was a prisoner or not, Uncle Isaac came to the island, apparently as cordial as ever, and invited him to go after fowl. The invitation was most joyfully accepted, and they set out. He now felt sure that Uncle Isaac was ignorant of all that had taken place; but he was soon undeceived.

They killed a few birds; then went to Pleasant Cove, and landing, sat down to rest beneath the birches at Cross-root Spring, when Uncle Isaac, in a kind but commanding tone, said,—

“James, I was at work last Tuesday forenoon on the eend of my p’int, and happening to look off in the bay, I saw the birch drifting about. Going to see what was the matter, found you dead drunk in the bottom of her. Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”

The fiery temper of the young man was roused in an instant by this blunt question. Forgetting the usual urbanity of his manners, and the deference he always paid to his friend, he exclaimed,—

“What concern is that to you? I should like to know what business you have to go nosing round after me, watching my proceedings?”

“The birch was mine. I had a perfect right, and it was my duty, to look after my own property when I saw it adrift and likely to go to sea. It is, moreover, the duty of every one who loves his neighbor to give seasonable advice, and even to reprove, in a kind spirit, a young man who is ruining himself, bringing disgrace upon his friends, and setting a bad example to those who have had fewer privileges.”

“Murch, you ignorant, meddlesome old codger you! Because I have permitted you some liberties, you presume on my condescension to insult me. But,” he replied, with an awful oath, “I’ll make you know your place! I’ll trample you under my feet!”

“Please not swear in my presence, young man. It’s wrong, and hurts my feelings. I am indeed ignorant, as you say, having had but few privileges; but I certainly have the advantage of you in one thing. I have made the best use I know how of the few a kind Providence has given me. Neither am I a pauper, swearer, drunkard, or thief.”

“This to me, you old villain!” exclaimed Welch, leaping to his feet, with both fists clinched, and livid with passion. “Take every word of that back, and humbly ask my pardon, or I’ll beat you like a dog.”

A quiet smile played over the features of Uncle Isaac, as he replied, “I do love to see a mud-puddle in a squall.”

Pulling a bulrush out of a clump that grew beside the spring, he flung it across one of the enormous roots of the birch that towered above them.

“You speak of beating me, young man. What that rush is to this birch would you be in my hands. You have drunk too much liquor to have any strength, even if you was made for it, which you are not. Just open these fists, which look more like potato-balls than anything else. Sit down on that flat rock, and listen to what I have to say, or I shall be tempted to call you a fool, which is contrary to Scripture. ‘A little pot soon biles over.’ If I had no more government over myself than you have, I should set you on your head in this spring, when you would probably die by water, which is a much more respectable death than the one you seem to be preparing yourself for.”

“I will leave you, at any rate,” replied Welch, in a much more subdued tone; for he now bethought himself that he was in the woods, miles from any human being, and entirely in the power of a man whom he had most grossly insulted and threatened, and whose forbearance he might well distrust.

“No, you won’t, except you can outrun a man who has run down a bull-moose more than once or twice. Did you hear me tell you to sit down?”

This was spoken in a tone so peremptory that Welch obeyed at once, trembling with passion and fear. James Welch was the idol of his parents, and with an overweening affection by no means uncommon, they had injured him by indulgence.

Uncle Isaac, with that instinctive discernment of character that can neither be learned nor taught, had become aware of this. He had also, during their long and familiar intercourse, obtained an accurate knowledge of his character; as he would have phrased it, “knew just how much of sound wood there was in him to nail to.”

In view of the estimate thus formed, he had resolved, as he told Ben, to give him quicksilver. This was a metaphoric term for stringent measures, borrowed by Uncle Isaac from the practice of physicians in his day, who were accustomed, in severe cases of stoppage, where life was at stake, to give quicksilver, which, by its weight, was sure to force a passage, either by the ordinary channel, in which event the patient recovered, or through the walls of the intestines, when death was the result. Thus it became a synonyme for “kill or cure.”

“I have said,” he continued, addressing his involuntary listener, “that you are a profane swearer and a drunkard. You have sworn in my presence. I found you drunk in my birch, and it is well known that these are your customary habits. You are also a pauper. All property, everything that goes to support life, in these parts, of any amount, comes by the hard work of somebody,—either bone labor or brain labor,—the labor of those who now possess it, or of those from whom they inherited it. That, I take it, you can’t deny, though you’ve been to school and I ’aint. If a great, stout, hearty feller, able to work, should go about the country, eating the bread and wearing the clothes somebody else earned, sleeping in the beds and warmed by the fires that others provided, I take it there wouldn’t be much doubt he was a pauper. That’s just the way with you. You have eaten your three meals a day ever since you was born, and never earned one—no, not the salt that seasoned them. That makes you out to be a pauper, and it’s only your father that keeps you off the town. Everybody who lives in society is bound to do something for the society in which he lives—to help bear its burden, and return something for the benefits he receives from his neighbor, and be a man among men. If he don’t do it, he’s not one whit better than a thief, because he takes from the common stock, eats up what ought to go to those who ain’t able to earn it, and he makes no return to society for what he draws. That’s just what you are doing. You are useless, which seems to me to be the meanest of all things, just about as bad as being a drunkard or thief. You are not of so much account as one of the clams in these flats, or one of the frogs in this spring, for they answer the end of their existence, and get an honest living, which you don’t. Your father and mother begun the world with nothing but their heads and hands; and your father, moreover, had to support your grandfather after his misfortune, and pay his debts; but by industry, good principles, and the blessing of God on their labor, they have got together a large property, and bear nobly their share of the burdens of society. They have spent—I would say, thrown away—a mint of money on you; given you the best of larning, the best of opportunities to go into business, do for yourself and others, make something of yourself, and be looked up to; but here you are at two-and-twenty years of age. You’ve done nothing, you’re good for nothing, and are going to the devil as fast as you can. Look at Charlie Bell. He came to Elm Island a poor, ragged orphan. See what he’s made of himself. Talk about beating me! He could lay you on your back faster than you could get up. Look at Fred Williams. His father and mother never knew how to treat a child, always hectoring and fretting him; and now that his father is poorly, and can do but little, that boy is at work from daylight till dark, tending mill and store, making fish, and seeing to the whole family; while you are lazing round here, and can’t be trusted with yourself, spending money you never earned a dollar of, and killing the best of parents by inches. Look at John Rhines. Yes, there’s a case in pint. Look at that boy. He might have staid at home, worked or played, laid abed or got up, as he liked; for his father is indulgent, and as well off as yours, considering the small expense at which he lives, and that he hasn’t got a reprobate son to break his heart, and spend his hard earnings. There he is, larning a blacksmith’s trade; up early and late, sweating at the anvil. He scorns to live on his father and grandsir’s substance. Yes, and I may say your grandsir, for Elm Island stood in his name, though he would have lost it shortly, for the mortgage had nearly eaten it up, when your father, from his own earnings, cleared it. Yes, and took care of your grandsir in his old age. When your father is in his grave, which will be shortly unless you turn over a new leaf, you will be living on what he leaves, gnawing the bones of the dead—a business that I never knew any dumb cretur to foller for a living but a wolf. When you die, you’ll be no more missed than yonder dead limb on that leaning beech. Now, if you ain’t the smallest, pitifulest consarn there is round here, I should like to know who is. There’s another thing to be thought of, young man. Where God has given great capacity and great privileges, there’s great accountability; there’s Holy Scripture for that. You may see the time that you will wish you had been born a fool, or not born at all. Come, it’s time we were going.”

Welch uttered not a word in reply, or on the way home.

“What have you done to him?” asked Ben, astonished at the appearance of Welch.

“Given him quicksilver, and it’s my opinion ’twill either kill or cure. I do hope he’ll rally, for I love the young man, though I felt it my duty to speak quite plain to him. Indeed, I spoke quite plain to him. He feels bad, Benjamin—all mixed up, half crazy. We must let him sweat in his grease. I shouldn’t wonder if he had a strong craving to drown trouble in liquor. I think you had better keep him on the island for a day or two.”

When James Welch got out of the boat, he would have killed Uncle Isaac if he could. O, how he wished he had the strength of Ben! But God generally gives great strength, and a mild temper in connection with it, to those who know how to use it.

He declined coming to the supper-table, saying he was unwell, and shutting himself in his room, paced the floor till midnight, half demented. At length there came over him a craving for liquor, that he might escape from himself in the delirium or stupor of intoxication. He knew the men who were making potash had half a barrel of New England rum in their camp, and went to the shore resolved to go after some; but Ben had hauled the boats so far up on the grass-ground that he was unable to launch any of them.

Foiled in this, he bathed his burning forehead in sea-water, and sat down on the rocks of the eastern point, beneath the light of the stars.

No sound disturbed the night, save the low, peculiar murmur of the tide, as it crept around the foot of the cliff. The first paroxysm of passion had passed away. He recalled the stinging truths to which he had so unwillingly listened. They no longer excited his anger, but appeared to him in a very different light. His ingratitude to his parents assumed a new aspect when presented by another, and touched him to the heart. He could no longer doubt that Uncle Isaac had faithfully portrayed the estimation in which he was held by the community at large.

No part of the conversation had touched him so nearly, or cut so deep, as the parallel instituted between himself and John Rhines. So completely was he absorbed in thought, that the flowing tide wet him to the knees unperceived.

In that still midnight hour, on the ocean cliff, the better nature of James Welch won the victory.

“Uncle Isaac is right,” he said. “I have been a drunkard, swearer, pauper, and thief. But from this hour I am so no more.”

The gray light of morning was breaking, as, utterly exhausted in mind and body, he flung himself upon the bed, and sank into a profound sleep. The next day Ben noted the change, and, surprised by his offering to help him about his work, shoved the boats into the water. In the course of the week, James took the boat, and told Ben he was going over to see Uncle Isaac. Before he had fairly cleared the harbor, Ben entered the house at a rate so unusual—for he was generally quite moderate in his motions—and a face so replete with joyful emotions, that Sally instantly exclaimed,—

“Why, Ben, what has happened?”

“The best thing that could happen. James has gone over to Uncle Isaac’s.”

“Glory to God! He’s all right, or he never would do that.”

James and Uncle Isaac came back together in the afternoon, and before night there was another auger-hole in the great maple.

Mr. Welch soon received a letter from his son, telling him all that had transpired, and asking permission to come home and go to work.

“Blessed be God!” exclaimed the delighted father. “My last days are going to be my best days.”

The reform proved permanent. James Welch became a partner with his father, and assumed the position for which his abilities qualified him. In after years, he often visited the spot where this singular scene was enacted, and the fountain was ever after, by universal consent, called Quicksilver Spring. In process of time the first syllable was dropped, and many who are familiar with Silver Spring are ignorant of the circumstances from whence it derived its present name.