Indiana State sentinel. (Indianapolis, Ind.) 1861-1865, 1861-04-03

d. she, tahJ sudSul, Hdniy, nlgn-DrOWeuy Will |
rich chestnut curls, and face as fautlessy noble
and beautiful as artist ever copied And he was |
good, too, and kind, generous and true.
spent week with them, and was happy all
the while. Johns mother lived with them, fine |
old lady as ever breathed, and making herself |
constant joy by doting on her darling boy" as
she always called him. / gave her an account of
my adventures by and land in foreign climes, |
and she kissed me because loved her darling.
did not see John again for four years. In the
evening reached his house. He was not in, but |
has wife and mother were there to receive me, and
TWO curly headed boys were at play about Elen's |
chalr. knew at once they were my friends |
children Everything seemed pleasant until the |
little ones werenbed and asleep, and then could |
see that Ellen was troubled. She tried to hide it,
but face SO used to the sunshine of smiles could
not conceal cloud.
AT length John came. His face was flushed |
and his eyes looked infamed. He grasped INV
hand with happy laugh, called me "old fellow
cold dog" said must come and live with him,
and many other extravagant things. His wife
tried to hide her tears, while his mother shook
her head and said: "He will SOW his wild oats
soon. My darling never can be bad man."
"God grant itl' | thought to myself; and /
knew that the same prayer was upon Ellen's lips.
1t was late when we retired and we might not
have done so even then, had not John fallen
asleep in his chair
On the following morning | walked out with
my friend. told him / was sorry to see him rs
| saw him the night before.
"Oh," said he, with laugh, ooh, that
nothing, only little wine party. We had glo-
rl0us time. | wish YOU had been there"
At first l thought would say no more, but
was it not my duty? | knew his nature better
than he knew it himself. His sappetites and pleas
ures bounded his own vision. knew how kind
and generous he was-alas too kind, too gener-
Gus.
"John, could you have seen Ellen's face last
evening, you would have trembled. Can you
make her unhappy"
He stopped me with-"Dont be fool why
| should she be unhappy"
Because she fears you are going do,cn hill, l
told him.
''Did she say so2'' ne asked, with flushed
face.
] mo; read it in her looks" said.
/ perhaps it is reflection of your own
thoughts" he suggested.
'Surely thought so when you came home"
replied.
Never can l forget the look he gave me then,
so full of reproof, of surprise, of pain.
&c, | forgive you, for know you to be my
| friend; but never speak to me like that going
| down hlli You know better. That can never
be. | know my own power, and | know my
wants: My mother knows me better than Ellen
| does"
Ali had that mother been as wise as she was
loving, she would have seen that the "wild OATS
which her son was sowing would grow uD and
ripen to furnish only seed for resowingl But she
loved him-loved him almost too WE'LL or,
should say, too blindy
But could say no more. | only prayed that
God would guard him, and then we conversed on
other subjects. / could spend but day with
him; but we promised to correspond often.
Three years more passed, during which John
Anderson wrote to me at least once month, and
oftner sometimes; but at the end of that time
his letters ceased coming and received no more
for two years, when | again found myself in his
native town. 1t was early in the afternoon when
/ arrived, and took dinner at the hotel.
/ had finished my meal, ana was lounging in
front of the hotel, when | saw funeral process
sion winding into distant church yard asked
the landlord whose funeral it was.
"Mrs. AndeIson's," he said; and ss he spoke, /
noticed slight dropping of the head, as if it cut
him to say so.
"Whatl John Anderson's wifef" ] ventured
"No," he said, cit is his mother" and as he
told me this, he turned away. But gentleman
near by, who had overheard our conversation, a,
once took up the theme.
"Our host don't seem inclined to converse upon
that subject" he remarked, with a shrug, in
quring, did you know John Anderson?"
"He was my schoolmate in boyhood, and my
bosom friend in youth" told him.
he then led me to one side, and spoke as fol
, lows:
'Poor Johnl He was the pride of the town ST,
, years ago. This man opened his hotel at thai
time, and sought custom by giving wine suppers
John was present at many of them, the gayest o
the gay, and the most generous of the party. Ir
fact, he paid for nearly all of them. Then he be
gan to go down hill, and has been going dowr
ever since AT times, true friends have prevailed
on him to stop, but his stops were of short dura
ton. A short season of sunshine would CLEAN
upon his home, and then the night came, more
dark and dreary than before.
HE said he never would get drunk again; but
still he would take glass of wine with a friend
That glass of wine was but the gate that let in
the food. Six years ago he was worth sixty
thousand dollars. Yesterday he borrowed the
sum of fifty dollars to pay his mothers funera
expenses. That poor mother bore up so long a:
she could. She saw her son-her darling boy,
as she always called him-brought home drunken
e many times. And she even bore blows from
him But now she is at rest Her darling
sorrow to the grave. Oh, hope this may reform
him."
"But his wife?" asked
Her heavenly love has held her up thus far
but she is only a shadow of the wife she was 81,
,, years ago." he returned.
My informant was deeply affected, and so was
/; consequently asked no more.
During the remainder of the afternoon de
: bated with myself whether to call upon John a
all. But finally resolved to go. though waite,
till after tea. found John and his wife alone
They had both been weeping, though | could SCI
e at glance that EIlen's face was beaming Will
hope and love. But OIL she was changed, sadly
! painfully So They were glad to see me, and m,
! hand was shaken warmly.
I ~ do I,,ft H. Tol,,
urged, shaking my hand second time know
you spoke the truth FIVE years ago. was going
y down hill But l have gone fast as / can
here stop at the foot. Everything is gone bu
II my wife. / have sworn-and my oath shall b.
s kept-Ellen and 1 are going to be happy now.
The poor fellow burst into tears; Ellen followe
suit. and l kept them company. could no
6 help crying like child. NV Godl what sight
!, The once noble true man so fallen-become
y y mere broken glass-the last fragment brightl
!" rejecting the image it once bore, poor suppan
ut the foot ofhope, begging grain of warmth 70
the heart of himself and wife! And how ha
:, = honored and loved that man, and how / loved hin
! still Oh how hoped--ay, more than hoped
= = believed, that he would be saved. And as | gaze
upon that wiie-so trusting, SO loving, SO tru
!, and hopeful, in the midst of living death
:. :. prayed more fervently than ever prayed be
y !, fore, that God would hold him up-lead him bac
y = to the top of the hill.
/. On the morning saw the children-grown t
a be intelligent boys; and though they looked pal
h and wan, yet they smiled, and seemed happ
d when their father kissed them. When left ther
r John took me by the hand, and the last words h
said were, Trust me; believe me now; will b
v a man henceforth while life lasts
h A little over two years had passed, when rea
II in a newspaper the death of Ellen Anderson.
Is started for the town where they had lived 500
5 possible, thinking l might help some one. !
n fearful presentiment possessed my mind.
I. "Where is John Anderson" / asked.
4 Don't know, I'm sure. He's been gone thes
5 three months. His wife died in the mad hous
s last week"
% "And the children?"
"Oh, they both died before she did,
,e staggered back and hurried from the place
is / hardly knew which way i went but instinct le
r. me to the churchyard / found four graves whic
e had been made in three years. The mothel
wife, and two children slept in them
Is "And what has done this?" ] asked myself
e And voice answered from the lowly sleepin
e places-"The demon of the wine table,"
W But this not all the work No, no. TIL
/ next day / saw-ohi Codi-what was far NOR