Now, young readers, you perceive that I have been rather explicit in narrating these State Prison incidents, and my reasons are: First, that you may see the danger of petty thefts, which are most generally insipient big ones. Secondly, pernicious influence of bad companions, and the certainty that your sin will find you out. Bad habits, of whatever class they may be, when once imbibed, are hard to be eradicated — often continue to grow until the committing of some great crime brings the perpetrator either to the gallows or the State Prison, the ignominy of either, lasting through a whole generation. 1 have often been laughed at for showing sympathy, and endeavoring to assist the wretched. It is true, I have given hundreds of dollars to alleviate the condition of the poor — of which there are three kinds, viz: God's jwor, the devil 's poor, and poor devils, all of which I have endeavored to do toward them as I should wish to be done by, were I in their condition.
In some cases I have met with base ingratitude and abuse. But never mind, the balance is on my side; what I have given in true benevolence is not lost, but will come back with ample interest. The narrow-souled WTetch who withholds his hand from assisting a fellowcreature in distress will surely get his pay. I have said that in some cases I have been requited with ingratitude, but one pleasing instance of appreciated kindness, such as I will now mention, goes to offset a dozen of the other. During the Washingtonian movement in 1845, there was a man who lived in a neighboring town, for many years a notorious drunkard. His familv had suffered much, being often destitute of a morsel of food.
Early one morning, a man said to me: " There goes old, he is just come in for a regular drunk. He gets a few dollars, and then, instead of providing food for his family, keeps drunk until his money is gone, then goes home and abuses them." I ran out and caught hold of him. I saw that he had already made a beginning. I caught bis arm and asked him to step in with me for a few minutes. At first he resisted and began to show fight, but after much persuasion he sat down with me. I took his fevered hand and looked him in the face. Said I, " now you have come to Boston to pass your time in beastly intoxication.
You have a family who want the money that you are going to throw away for rum. Now, my good fellow, go immediately home, but before you go, my friend here will take you to Washingtonian hall where you can sign the pledge, and I am sure that if you leave off drinking, you will yet become a happy husband." The old man listened with attention; he then, grasped both my hands, and commenced weeping like a child. He declared that no one had ever talked to him in that style before, but had called him a drunken villain and various other insulting epithets. Said he, " I will sign the pledge!" My friend conducted him to the hall — he signed, and went home a sober man.
A week after this interview, I ascertained where he lived and went out to see how he got along. When near the house, I passed by on the other side, to ascertain if I could see him, and what he was about. His regular business was that of a wheelwright, and could have constant employment if he would keep sober. I observed that he was busy at work, so 1 crossed the road, and went into his shop. At first he did not recognize me, but in a minute he caught my hand, and invited me into the house, and there was a scene for an artist. At a window, sat a half-clad girl making a check shirt. The neighbors, having heard of his reform, now commenced assisting the family.
A younger girl sat knitting with neither stocking nor shoe to her feet. She was also poorly clothed. But the most affecting scene of all, was the wife, sitting with an infant at her breast. The poor woman looked the very picture of sorrow, her eyes sunken, face pale, and furrowed, as though the tears had frequently coursed their way from those lustreless orbs. The nursing infant bore the very lineaments of its mother's grief, looking emaciated and sickly, as though it could hardly find sufficient nourishmenfc from nature's fountain to sustain its equivocal existence, and when introduced to the emaciated wife, she received me with a sort of melancholy joy, as though she had said, " Oh, sir, I fear 'tis too late!" In a few minutes she seemed to brighten up, and said she felt rejoiced that her husband had signed the pledge, " and oh!