The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1884-03-01
The Drunkard's. Death.

AT last, one bitter night, he sunk
down on the doorstep, faint and i'll.
The premature decay of vice and
profligacy had worn him to the bone.
His cheeks were hollow and lvid, his
eyes were sunlen, and their sight was
dim. His legs trembled beneath his
weight, and cold SILVER ran through
every limb. .--
And now the long forgotten scenes of
a mis-spent life crowded thick and fast
upon him. He thought of the time
when he had home-a happy, cheer
ful homeland of those who peopled it,
and flocked about him then, until the
forms of his elder children seemed to
rise from the grave, and stand about
him--so plain, so clear and so distinct
they were that he could touch and feel
them Looks that he had long forgot
ten were fixed upon him once more;
voices long since hushed in death
sounded in his ear like the music of vii
lage bells. But it was only for an in
slant. The rain beat heavily upon him;
and cold and hunger were gnawing at
his heart again. He rose, and dragged
his feeble limbs a few PAGES farther.
The street was silent and empty; the
few passengers who passed by, ct that
late hour, hurried quickly on, and his
tremulous voice was lost in the violence
of the storm. Again that heavy chill
struck through his frame. and his blood
seemed to stagaate beneath it. He
coiled. himself up in a projecting door
way and tried to sleep.
But sleep had fled from his dull and
glazed eyes. His mind wandered
strangely, but he was awake and con-
sciOus. The well-known sound of
drunken mirth sounded in his ears, the
glass was at his lips, the board was
covered with choice rich food-they
were before him; he could see them all,
he had but to reach out his hand and
take them, and, though the illusion
was reality itself, he knew he was
alone in the deserted street, watching
the rain-drops as they battered on the
stones; that death was coming upon
him by inches-and that there was
none to care for or help him. Sudden
ly he started up in the extremity of
terror. He had heard his own voice
shouting in the night air, he knew not
what, or why. Hark a groanl-anoth-
err His senses were leaving him; half
formed and incoherent words burst
from his lips; and his hands sought to
tear and lacerate his flesh. He was 90
ing mad, and he shrieked for help, but
his voice failed him.
He raised his head and looked up the
long, dismal street. He recollected that
outcasts like himself, condemned to
wander day and night in those dismal
streets, had sometimes gone distracted
with their dismal loneliness. He re-
membered to have heard many years
before that homeless wretch had once
been found in solitary corner, sharp
ening rusty knife to plunge into his
own heart, preferring death to that
endless, weary wandering to and fro.
In an instaat his resolve was taken;
his limbs received new life; he ran
quickly from the spot, and paused not
for breath until he reached the river
side. He crept softly down the steep
stone stairs that lead from the COM
mencement of Waterloo Bridge, down
to the waters level. He crouched into
a corner, and held his breath, as the
patrol passed. Never did the prison.
er's heart thrOb with the hope of lib
erty and life half so eagerly as did that
of the wretched man at the prospect of
death. The watch passed close to him,
but he remained unobserved; and, after
waiting till the footsteps had died away
in the distance, he cautiously descended
and stood beneath the gloomy arch
that forms the landing place from the
river.
The tide was in and the water flowed
at his feet. The rain had ceased and
the wind was lulled, and all was for the
moment still and quiet-so silent that
the slightest sound on the opposite
bank, even the ripping of the water
against the harges that were moored
there, was distinctly audible to his ear.
The stream stole languidly and slug
gishly on. Strange aud fantastic forms
rose to the surface and beckoned him
to approach; dark, cleaning eyes
peered from the water, and seemed to
mock his hes tation, while hollow mur-
murs from behind urged him onward.
He retreated a few PAGES took a short
run, a desperate leap, and plunged into
the water.
Not five seconds had passed when he
rose to the waters surface; but what a
change had taken place in that short
time, in all his thoughts and feelings!
l>llc-lllc-ll any lOLuli IIOhCl W, HIS
cry and starvation, anything but death.
He fought and struggled with the water
that closed over his head, and screamed
in agonies of terror. The curse of his
own son rang in his ears. The shore
but one foot of dry ground-he could
almost touch the step. One hands
breadth nearer and he was saved; but
the tide bore him onward, under the
dark arches of the bridge, and he sank
to the bottom. Again he arose and
struggled for life. For one instant-for
one brief instant the buildings on the
rivers banks, the lights ON the bridge
through which the current had borne
him. the black water and the fast-hying
clouds, We're distinctly visiole-once
more he sank, and once again he rose.
Bright plumes of fire shot up from
earth to heaven and reeled be ore his
eyes, while the water Numbered in his
ears and stunned him with its furious
roar.
A week afterwards the body was
washed ashore some miles down the
river, a swollen and disigured mass.
Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne
to the grave, and there it has long since
moldered away Charles Dickens.