“It is a sorrowful heart,” said I to myself, as I raked over the dying embers upon the hearth, to throw a transient gleam of light over my dreary cottage—“It is a sorrowful heart that never rejoices; and though I am somewhat in debt at the Blue Moon, and the landlady of the Stag has over and over again said she’d never trust me, still she has not yet refused me, only at first. Many’s the shilling I have paid them both, to be sure,” said I, rising involuntarily and going to the cupboard: “I had better take a mouthful before I go out, for it’s no use to wait any longer for Mary’s return.”

Just at this moment the eldest of my two children inquired in a piteous tone, “if that was mother.” “Your mother? no,” said I; “and what if it was, what then?” “Because, father,” continued the child, “I thought perhaps she had brought a loaf of bread home, for I am so hungry.” “Hungry, child,” said I; “then why did you not ask me before you went to bed?” “Because, father, I knew there was no bread. When mother sent me to get a loaf this morning at the grocer’s, Mrs. Mason said our last month’s bill had not yet been settled, and she could not trust any more; and so we have only had a few potatoes. When mother went out to look for work, she promised to bring a loaf home very early.” “Why, Jane,” said I, “this is a new story—what, is there nothing at all in the house?” “No, father, nothing; and that is not all, father; mother cried this morning about it when she went out; and though she never uses bad words, said something about cursed drink: she said she should be back before dark, and it has now been dark a long time, and hark, how it rains.”

The fire flickered up a little, and at this moment the latch of the door clicked; I peeped up through the gloom, a pang of conscious shame stealing through my frame; but it was not my wife, as I of course supposed—it was Mrs. Mason. I was surprised and confused. “Where is your wife, James?” said she, in a mild, firm tone. “Is that mother?” said my child again, in a rather sleepy tone; “I am so glad you are come, I am so hungry.” “That child,” said I, “has gone to bed without her supper to-night,” fumbling about at the same time upon the mantel-piece for a bit of candle, which I could not find. “Yes,” said Mrs. Mason, very gravely, “and without its dinner too, I fear; but where is your wife, James? for I am come to see whether she brought any thing home with her for herself and family; for I could not feel comfortable after I had refused your child a loaf this morning, just as I know the refusal was.” I now stammered out something about “sorry,” and “ashamed,” and “bad times.” “But where is your wife, James?” “She is, perhaps, at neighbor Wright’s,” said I, briskly, glad to catch an opportunity of a minute’s retreat from my present awkward position; “I’ll just step and see. Jane, get up, child.” “No, James,” said Mrs. Mason, in a tone not to be misunderstood; “no, James, I wish she was sitting by their comfortable fireside; I called in there just now, as I came along, to pay a little bill, and they spoke very kindly of your wife, and hoped she might be enabled to rub through this winter—but I will call again in half an hour: Mary will have come home, I hope, by that time.”

The door closed upon her, and I remained in a kind of half stupor; my month’s unpaid bill, my public-house scores, my destitute home; these and a thousand things connected with my situation, kept me musing in no very comfortable frame of mind, when the latch again clicked, the door opened, and through the half gleam of one flickering flame, I just caught the glimpse of a form, that in the next instant, cold and wet, sunk lifeless in my arms. It was Mary. As she sunk down upon me, she just said, with a shudder, “Cold.” Shall I stop to tell you of the agony of my mind? Shall I endeavor to relate a portion of the thoughts that chased each other with a comet’s rapidity through my brain; the remembrance of our past comforts, and our happiness too? Recovering after the lapse of an instant, I called, “Jane, Jane, get up, and make haste; your mother is come home, and is very ill and faint; get a light”—she was quickly at my side—“get a light,” for the little unfriendly flame had ceased to burn.

“But where are you, mother?” said Jane. “Jane, child,” said I, angrily, “your mother is here; get a light directly.” “We haven’t a bit of candle, father.” “Then get some wood out of the back room—break up some little bits—O, do make haste.” “We haven’t a bit of wood, father.” “Child, child—” “Yes, father, but we haven’t any.” My poor wife at this moment gave a kind of sob, and with a slight struggle, as if for breath, sunk heavier in my arms. I tried to hold her up in an easier posture, calling to her in a tender manner, “Mary, my dear Mary;” but my sensations and my conscience almost choked me. In this moment of anguish and perplexity, my wife, for aught I knew, dead in my arms—without light, without fuel, without food, without credit, Mrs. Mason returned. Jane had managed to make the fire burn up, just so as to disclose our wretched situation. “Your wife ill?” said Mrs. Mason, hastily stepping forward—“very ill, I fear, James, and wet and cold—run hastily, James,” reaching herself a broken chair, “and call in Mrs. Wright, and place your wife on my lap.” This I immediately did, and as I opened the door to go out, I heard Mrs. Mason ask Jane to get a light—and shame made me secretly rejoice, that I had escaped the humiliation, for the present, of confessing that we had not even a bit of a candle in the house.

Mrs. Wright was preparing for supper: they were regular and early folks, and my heart sunk within me when, in my hurry, I unceremoniously opened the door—I mean the contrast I saw between their cottage and my own; a clean cloth was laid, with spoons, and basins, and white, clean plates, and knives and forks, with every other necessary comfort. Wright was sitting with his back towards the fire, with a candle in one hand and a book in the other, reading to his wife, who was leaning forward, and just in the act of taking a pot off the hanger, in which it would be easy to guess, was something warm for supper. The fire and candle gave a cheerful light, and every thing looked “comfortable.” “My wife is taken very ill,” said I, “and Mrs. Mason, who has just stepped in, begged me to call in your help.” “Mrs. Mason at your house now?” said Mrs. Wright; “come, Wright, reach me my cloak, and let us make haste and go.” We were all at the door, when Mrs. Wright said, “What, come to fetch us without a lantern? and ours is at the glazier’s. What are we to do?” “The distance is very short,” I said. “Yes,” said Wright, “but long enough for an accident; how I do like necessaries;” adding, in an undertone, as he pulled his wife along, something about “enough for tavern debts, but nothing to buy necessaries.”

On opening my cottage door, I called out—for no one was in the room—“Mrs. Mason, are you up stairs? how is Mary? here is Mrs. Wright; shall I come up?” No one answered, and Mrs. Wright passed me, going softly up stairs, saying, in a low tone, as she ascended, “James, you had better make up a good fire, and get some water heated as fast as you can.” Again I was aghast. “Get some water heated,” said I; and the wretchedness of our bedless bed and furnitureless room crossed my mind at the same time. Mrs. Mason, at this moment, leaned over the banisters, and said, in a soft voice, “James, fetch the doctor, and lose no time; make haste, for life may depend on it.” My wretchedness seemed now complete; the very fire of delirium and confusion seemed to seize upon my brain; and hastily calling out to Jane to attend upon Mr. Wright, I snatched up my hat, and pushed by my neighbor without heeding some inquiries he had begun about the necessaries that were then so much required.

It rained, and was very dark; the road to the doctor’s was not the best, and he lived rather more than a mile off; it was impossible to proceed faster than a slow, cautious walk. I was now alone, and, in much bitterness of spirit, began to upbraid myself, and those companions of my folly who had led me on to habits that had first disgraced, and then brought me to severe ruin. With what vivid brightness did the first year of our marriage, its comforts and its hopes, again pass before me; and when my mind led me on through all its changing scenes, up to the moment when Mrs. Mason, in her low, subdued tone of voice, called to me to fetch the doctor, and to mind I lost no time; I could only realize my wife as dying, and myself the cruel tyrant who had, by neglect, ill usage, and partial starvation, brought her to an untimely end.

When I entered the doctor’s house, “Is that you, James King?” said he, sharply; “do you want me?” “Yes, sir,” said I; “my wife is very ill, and Mrs. Mason, who called in just at the time she was taken, desired me to come and to request your attendance upon her. I am afraid, sir, it is no little affair.” “Mrs. Mason, Mrs. Mason,” said the doctor; “I am inclined to think Mrs. Mason has better drugs in her shop for your wife’s complaint, than my shop affords, and I expect I shall have to tell her so.” I hung down my head with shame; I understood what he meant. He then moved towards the door, putting on his greatcoat as he walked along. “But stop,” said he, just as we got to the outer door, “how did you come—no lantern?” “I can carry your lantern before you, sir,” said I. “Yes,” said he, “and I may bring it back.” “But I will return with you, sir; my wife will most likely want some medicine.” “Yes, James,” said he, “and if she does, I shall want the money longer still.” I had no word to reply, it was no time to begin being independent. The doctor’s large glass lantern was brought, and our journey back was quickly performed. I should have thought a great deal of giving 7s. 6d. for such a lantern, if I had really required just such an one; yet I had paid as many pounds on my scores, and thought nothing at all about it.

On getting home, I found that somehow it had been managed to make up a good fire, and the tea-kettle was boiling, and Mrs. Mason was just making a little tea. “How is Mary?” said I, hardly daring to look Mrs. Mason in the face. “Well, Mrs. Mason,” said the doctor, “pray what is the matter?” and as the doctor spoke, Mrs. Mason took up the jug of tea she had made, conversed with the doctor in an undertone for half a minute, and both walked up stairs, leaving me again to reflection, in fact, taking no notice of me. I sunk down heavily upon the chair that was beside the fire, in a state of exhaustion, and while I was wondering where all this would end, was aroused by the cry of “James, James, the doctor says your wife must put her feet into warm water; so bring up some directly, James, in a large pan or bucket, or any thing that is handy; pray, make haste;” and before I could reply, for I doubted whether there was either, the door was shut, and again I was placed in a new difficulty. However, I found an old leaky pail and an old broken pan; so I set the pail into the pan to catch the leakage, and together, they did tolerably well; but I felt considerable shame as I handed this lumbering affair up stairs, well knowing it would call forth some remark.

I had just again seated myself at the fire, when the doctor, in no very gentle tone, called out, “James, here, man, take this paper to my office; Mr. Armstrong will give you some physic for your wife, and then it will be twice given, for I suppose you will never pay for it.” I stared at him, or rather paused and hesitated—who could tell why? was it the taunts I was thus obliged to endure; or was it bodily exhaustion? I had eaten all the food my poor Mary had put into my basket for my breakfast; and, as it appeared, all she had in the world; yet I had managed to borrow sixpence at noon, intending to buy me a loaf and cheese, and half a pint of beer for my dinner; but venturing upon half a pint of beer first, I called for another; and, becoming thirsty, for a pint; and so my dinner and my afternoon’s work were both lost together. It must now have been nearly ten o’clock, and I had tasted no food, as I said before, since breakfast. I felt faint, and well I might; however, with a heavy step and a heavier heart, taking up the doctor’s lantern, and looking round upon the empty wretchedness before me, I again set out for the doctor’s. And did I not also think over neighbor Wright’s comfortable, cheerful room, and his boiling pot; while I, who had that day spent a borrowed sixpence upon beer, had not even a crust of bread for myself or family? And did I forget the pence, and then the shillings, and then the pounds I had paid at public-houses; selling, and pawning my bed from under me, and my clothes from off my back, and all to gain misery and want, and lose my good name?

Mr. Armstrong was a kind-hearted young man, and soon prepared the medicines, and by kind and cheerful hopes concerning my poor Mary, and a little civil conversation, raised my spirits, and I walked back somewhat lighter of heart; but I was thoroughly wet, and the cold rain pierced my very marrow, for I was wearing summer clothing in the winter season—I had no other. Cold and wet, exhausted and miserable, I once more lifted the latch of my own cottage door. The candle was dimly burning. My fears arose, and my heart sunk within me: “Is Mary worse?” said I. “She is no better,” said Mr. Wright, who was sitting over the dying embers—“no better—heavy work, James.”

I placed the medicine upon the table, and sat down, exhausted and wretched. Whose situation so low, could he have known all, that would not have pitied me? Wright rose, and carried the medicines up stairs; and in another minute all was the stillness of death. I could have borne any thing but this—at least I so felt—but under this oppressive stillness, my feelings gave way in torrents of tears, and every moment brought a fresh accusation against myself for my past doings; and again I looked around me, as well as my tearful eyes and dimly-lighted room would allow, and contrasted all with John Wright’s. “So comfortable,” said I, involuntarily. Indistinct sounds and cautious steppings were now heard above; and while I was raising myself up to listen, in order to catch, if possible, something that would acquaint me with the state of my poor Mary, the bedroom door opened, and down came Wright and his wife, the latter carefully lighting the doctor, Mrs. Mason being close behind him. I tried to recover myself a little, and to assume something like the appearance of courage; and in a half-choked, coughing voice, said, “How is my poor wife, sir?” The doctor, with a severity of manner, and imitating my manner of speaking, replied, “You should have coughed sooner, James;” then turning to Mrs. Mason, said, “Remember, quiet is the best medicine now; indeed, it is food and medicine in her present state; don’t teaze her about any thing; at half past, mind—and again at twelve, until the pain subsides, when sleep will follow.”

I shrunk back at the words “half past,” which reminded me that I had not even a twenty-shilling clock in the house.

“James,” said the doctor, “have you no time in the house?” “No, I suppose not,” he answered himself. “Well, then, you must guess at it; oh dear, bad work indeed. Come, James, put that bit of candle into the lantern; I hope it does not rain now.”

Wright opened the door, and I walked out with the lantern, the doctor following, and, buttoning his coat closely round him, remarked upon the darkness of the night. I walked on with an unsteady step, feeling as if every yard of ground I strode over would be the last. But, urged on by my situation, I reached the doctor’s house without any remark from him upon my wearied step, and pulled his bell in rather a hasty manner.

“You are in a hurry, James,” said he, “you forget the time of night; a gentle pull would have waked the attendant without disturbing my family. My family are very regular, James, and I make it a rule never to disturb them when it can be avoided; perhaps you think such things of no consequence: regularity, James, and sobriety, are two very principal things in a family.”

By this time the attendant appeared, and, giving him the lantern and thanking the doctor for his kind attention, I left the door to return home. The door closed, and my situation was a very painful one; the sudden change from light to utter darkness obliged me to stand still a few minutes before I could venture to move, but a world of sensations ran through my mind, and distracted me more than ever; the weakness of my body prevented my checking its sensations; and, could I have weighed in the balance of reason, to say nothing of religion, at this moment, all foolish, sinful pleasures—falsely so called—of drinking, with the distress of mind and weariness of body I then endured, and had endured on this one single night, how light would they have seemed. Yes, even if I had not included the loss of positive property and health.

Once again, then, I reached my home. All was still; but soon Mrs. Mason came down. Before I could speak, she said, “Mary is better, James; she has fallen into a nice sleep.” She spoke kindly, and looked kindly. I tried to answer her, but my feelings choked me; and seeing my effort to suppress them, she continued, “God has dealt very mercifully, James, towards you, in so blessing the means that have been used; but you have had no supper; you will find some nice warm soup by the side of the fire there; Mrs. Wright sent it in for you, by her husband, when she returned home: come, James, eat it while it is warm, it will do you good; your little girl and boy have both had some, and they are now warm in bed and fast asleep.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Wright are very kind,” I added, “and you are kind; what should I have done but for you and them?”

“Done, James?” said she mildly; “done, James? see how God orders his dispensations; ‘in the midst of wrath he remembers mercy,’ and I trust he has purposes of mercy in this event towards you and your family; but beware, James, for the Bible expressly says, ‘My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord;’ and again, ‘whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.’ But eat your supper; I will step up stairs and see if your wife is still sleeping, and if she is, I will come down and chat a little with you.”

As she went softly up stairs my eyes followed her, and I said to myself, This is one of your religious ones, is it, that I have so often joined in jeering at? Surely I ate my supper with a thankful heart, and was much strengthened by it. Mrs. Mason soon returned, and stepping into the back room, where Jane lay, and her little brother, brought out three or four billets of wood, and a cheerful fire was soon made; so that with my warm, nourishing supper, the cheerful fire, and Mrs. Mason’s mild and cheerful countenance and manner, I regained my spirits, and a considerable portion of my strength. After a little pause, she said,

“James, when Mary recovers, if it should please God to order it so, great care will be required lest she should relapse. You would not wish to lose her, James; she has, I believe, been a kind and affectionate wife to you, and a tender mother to your children. When you were first married every thing went well with you, and it was a remark I often made of you as a neighbor, that you wanted nothing but the true fear of God in your heart, and faith in our blessed Saviour, to make you a pattern to all around you. I used often to say a few words to Mary, and she always received them meekly, but I seldom saw you, and your manner never gave me any encouragement to talk to you on religious subjects. James, experience has enabled me to make one remark, that absence from divine worship, as a regular or customary thing, is an almost unerring sign of the absence of religion from the heart; and it is indeed seldom that I have seen you in your place on the Sabbath-day. The Sabbath is a blessed day when it is spent aright.” So leaving me, she again went up stairs, remarking that Mr. Wright had been home to her house, to explain the cause of her absence, (and as I tolerably well guessed, this partly explained the mystery of fire and candle, and tea and sugar, and bread,) adding, “Mrs. Wright will come in at daylight, and will stay with Mary, and that will allow me to attend to my morning’s business: you know, James, the Bible says, ‘diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.’”

I longed to go and see my poor Mary, but I was not asked, and I supposed it right that it should be so. I now thought of my poor children; and going into their room, I felt distressed to find them so badly provided with bed-clothes. I kissed them, and secretly prayed, in a kind of way, that I might be spared to care more for them than I had lately done. I sat down, and began to reflect upon all the circumstances of the past day, and of this eventful night; but I soon fell into a sound sleep, which continued until Mrs. Mason awoke me, informing me that it was nearly daylight, and reminded me of her intentions to return home to her duties as soon as Mrs. Wright should arrive. “And why wait for Mrs. Wright, madam?” said I; “surely I can attend upon Mary now, or at least until Mrs. Wright does come.” “It is very natural,” said Mrs. Mason, “that you should desire to attend upon your wife, and think yourself capable of doing so; but my most particular directions from the doctor were, not to allow you to see your wife, if I could prevent you, until he had seen her once more; and you may remember, James, in how grave a manner he directed she might not in any way be teazed, nor—but, James, to deal honestly with you, and rightly as I consider it, whatever may be your future conduct to your wife, your behavior to her for these last three years has not been quite kind; and as grief and depression have very much to do with her present illness, we are all of opinion that you had better refrain from going to see her until she is more composed. You have bruised, James; seek now to heal.”

I was touched with the reproof; I was, perhaps, more touched by the manner. Mrs. Mason was one who sought to win souls: she won my esteem and confidence, and I felt that if Mrs. Mason could talk to me thus, I had still something to lose. I went to call Mrs. Wright. On my return, Mrs. Mason was up stairs, but she had placed nearly a whole loaf and a piece of butter on the table, and some tea and sugar, and the kettle was singing by the fireside. These were times of deep thought to me. On Mrs. Wright’s arrival, I thanked her for her great kindness, and hoped better times were in store. “Yes,” she replied, “better times may be in store for you; I hope they are; you have certainly bought your corn at a very dear market lately, but you may find a better one to go to yet.” Mrs. Mason now appeared, and ready to go home; the morning had just fully dawned. “Come, James,” said she, “you must go with me; I want to send back a few things to Mary; and mind, you must not leave the house to-day after your return, and your little girl ought to be sent to account for your absence from work—that is, James, if—”

“If, madam?” said I quickly; “if what?”

“Yes, James, if you think you can maintain a new character, and desire really to become again, what I well remember you once was, a respectable man; yes, James, a respectable man; for remember, that word is the just right of every man who acts as every man ought to do. The word seems to surprise you: it is a sad mistake that seems insensibly to have crept into common acceptance in these days, that respectability must mean something belonging rather to riches and rank, than honesty and uprightness of character; respectability is as much the birthright of yourself as of young ’squire Mills; indeed, I may say that on this point, you both started in life exactly equal: his father was indeed respectable in every sense of the word; and your father was certainly nothing behind him; both faithfully discharged the duties of that station ‘into which it pleased God to call them,’ and this I consider, from the king to the cottager, is to be respectable; but, James, the young ’squire is as respectable a man, I am happy to say, as his father was, and why should not you become as respectable as yours? I have lived to see many changes, but the change I most mourn over, is the change of principle in my neighbors. Their respectability seems to be exchanged for finer clothes and fewer fireside, fewer home comforts; and I happen also to know, that if very much of the grain that has been made into poisonous beer and whiskey had been made into good wholesome bread, both you and I, James, should have been better off, I think, than we are now, for I have had my struggles as well as you; so have many others. I have worked early and late, taking care of the pence, to maintain my respectability; yet, let me again repeat it, your father and mother were respectable to the day of their death, and many in this village would gladly see their only child following their footsteps, and seeking the same inheritance they now possess ‘in mansions in the skies.’ But the road leads down hill to vice and folly, and I might add, the gulf of ruin lies at the bottom; you may be far down it; I fear you are, yet there is a hand that even now beckons to you, and says, ‘Turn, turn, I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth; wherefore turn and live:’ but, James, you are not ignorant of your Bible.”

I tried to conceal my emotions, for it was a very long time since I had heard such words as these. My Bible and the house of God had been long entirely neglected. Mrs. Mason perceived that I was affected, and moving towards the door, said, “Yes, James, it is a slippery, down-hill path that leads to ruin, and many there be that walk therein. Heaven may be said to lie upward, yet ‘its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace.’ But come, it is broad daylight, and I must hasten home.”

As we passed neighbor Wright’s cottage, I had not forgotten the comfort that was within, and I said secretly, “I’ll see what’s to be done.” The arrival of Mrs. Mason at home seemed to give to all the liveliest pleasure and satisfaction; and their inquiries after my poor wife were made with a kindliness of manner that surprised me. “They respect her,” said I to myself; they took little notice of me, yet treated me with more civility than I had a right to expect. Mrs. Mason soon put up a few little things and directed me to give them to Mrs. Wright, and weighing me a pound of bacon, and putting a large loaf and half a pound of cheese into the basket with it, with some soap and candles, said, “I shall charge these to your bill, James. Patty, go into the garden and cut James a couple of nice cabbages; I dare say he will know what to do with them.” Having had this unexpected provision made me for the day, and receiving parting words of encouragement from this kind friend, I returned home. I found my children up and washed, and breakfast ready. Mrs. Wright had kindly done this. Jane looked cheerful, and my little Harry came edging towards me, as if he did not know what to make of all this. “Mother’s so ill, Jane says, father—is she; is she, father?” looking up in my face as I sat down, “is she?”

“She is better now, my boy,” I said.

“Better, father? who made her ill? you didn’t make her ill, did you, father—nice bread, father—did mother bring this nice bread home, father? speak, father, you don’t speak.”

I could not trust myself to answer; so I rose, for I was much affected at the thought that Mrs. Mason had cared for these babes and their mother, but I had neglected them, and foolishly squandered away their comforts and even their necessary bread.

Mrs. Wright went home; but returned soon after we had finished breakfast; and by the time I had put things a little to rights, the doctor called. His “Well, James,” filled me with no very pleasing sensations. “I hope we shall have a change, eh, James?” and passing on, went up stairs. Ah, thought I, I hope so too, for I know what you mean. He soon came down; said my wife might get up if she liked, taking a little care, and, “after to-day, give her a pill every noon for dinner off a loin of mutton, eh, James? A few more broiled pills for her, and a pint less of liquor for you, and your old father and mother would soon come to life again. Your savings’ bank is at the tavern, and the landlady of the Stag keeps your accounts, I believe, eh, James? I shall charge you nothing for this.” This was the doctor. I received his reproofs humbly, and certainly thought, you have been very kind, but I also thought, you are not Mrs. Mason.

Soon after this, my poor Mary came down stairs, and I at once confessed my sorrow for my past conduct, and my determination to drink no more; and, to conclude, my wife slowly recovered, and, I may add, I recovered also; but I was very far down the hill, and consequently found it a long and hard tug to get up again; but Mrs. Mason encouraged me, Mrs. Wright helped me, the doctor cheered me, Mr. Armstrong praised me, our kind minister instructed me, my wife assisted me, and, as a crowning point of all, the blessing of God rested on me. I worked hard, I prayed in my family, I paid my debts, I clothed my children, I redeemed my bed, I mended my windows, I planted my garden and sold garden stuff, instead of buying; I bought me a wheel-barrow, I mended my chairs and table, I got me a clock; and now here I am, but never shall I forget John Wright or his wife, how long soever I may remember my other kind friends, and most of all, Mrs. Mason. But there were no temperance societies in those days, or I think I should have been reclaimed sooner.