Earlier text: THE GRADUATING DRESS.The bright June sunshine streamed cheerily into the long visitors’ room of a country lunatic asylum. Around the high and open windows the heavily-foliaged trees swayed in the breeze, and the birds chittered and sang. But sunshine, birds, and trees were little noticed by the occupants of that long room; they were too engaged to notice any signs of gladness without. Around the large apartment various small groups were formed, each group having for its center of interest a poor lunatic. It was curious to look around and note the different phases of madness in these poor creatures. One was weeping as passionately and continuously as if the sorrow of many lives had been heaped upon her, and she were trying to dissolve the load in tears; another chattered like a magpie, with the absorbed air of a philosopher, though her utterances were as foolish a jumble as309 was ever strung together; another sat moodily staring at the anxious friends who had come to see her, scarcely deigning to speak a word to them; another laughed and uttered drolleries which brought unwilling smiles to the faces of her friends; but of all the groups none was more interesting than one composed of a sprightly little dark-eyed woman in gown and cap which marked her as an inmate of the place; a young widow with a toddling baby-boy, and a young lady and gentleman by her side. The old woman caught up the baby and half smothered it with kisses. “He won’t be like you, mind, Jenny; he’s got his father’s bonnie blue eyes—bless him!” And with tearful eyes she bent over the child again and gave him another dose of kisses. It was quite too much for the little fellow; he stoutly resisted it, struggled to his feet, and got behind grandma’s chair. “Well, Ruth, so you brought Philip Davis to see me,” continued the old woman. “I’m glad to see you, Philip, and hope you are sticking to work and getting on. To tell you the plain truth, lad, though I’m glad to see you, I’m not quite comfortable at seeing you and310 Ruth together. I shall ask you all about it when I go home, and give you both a talking to. I am not going to let another get into what I did without speaking some warning and advice.” “Hush, mother,” said the young widow, seeing the tears filling the old woman’s eyes; “the governor’ll be here directly, and we mustn’t let him see you crying, or he’ll think it’s because you are so loth to leave this place.” “Ha! ha!” laughed Ruth, quietly; “wouldn’t he guess the truth, mother?” “Not a bit of it,” said the mother, laughing through her tears. “How is the old man, Ruth?” “Better, lately, I think, mother. But mind, you are not going back to him; you’re going to visit Philip’s mother for a few weeks. He came to-day on purpose to invite you; and why don’t you speak up, Phil?” added the vivacious damsel, turning to the young man. A smile broke over his handsome brown face as he replied. “It isn’t fair to reprove a fellow for not speaking, when you’ve taken the words out of his mouth.” Presently the governor entered. “Who wants me? Is it you, Rhoda Sperry?” “Yes, sir,” said the old lady, rising, and giving him a smile and a courtesy. “It’s to speak about my going home, sir.” “Why you don’t mean to say you’re well enough?” he said gayly, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, sir, I do,” answered Rhoda; “and they all do.” He turned to the visitors. “Yes, we should like her to come home, please, sir,” said Ruth, her face beaming with smiles. “We all think she’s quite well enough.” “Very well,” said the pleasant governor; “then I’ll make arrangements for her to leave next week; and she can be out next Sunday to spend the day with you, if you like.” The old woman smiled delightedly, and blessed the kind man with her eyes. After a few more cheery words, he left them to continue their chat, and for some time they carried it on heartily. It was a beautiful picture in a dreary setting—yes, dreary, in spite of the sunshine within, and the music312 without, for in reality it was a tomb for the living, a place wherein men and women suffered from the worst malady that afflict human nature. The leave-taking now had to take place between the visitors and the visited. Never before had old Rhoda Sperry said good-by so cheerily; never before had she returned to the monotony of her life in the asylum with smiles on her wrinkled face. But now she left the long room almost trippingly, with the gladness of a prisoner having received a promise of liberty. On the following Sunday an equally gladsome picture to the one referred to above might have been seen in a little thatched cottage some five or six miles from the asylum. In the “best room” sat Rhoda Sperry like a queen in the old arm-chair, surrounded by the same young folks whom we have already seen, and Philip Davis’ mother. A beautiful quietness prevailed, broken only by the humming of bees and the twittering of birds around the open door. The fragrance of a thousand flowers was wafted in by the soft breezes. The group within seemed to be enjoying it too much to talk. Moreover, they seemed to be waiting for somebody to complete their satisfaction for each other’s society. Presently Ruth rose from her low seat, and, with a shade of anxiety on her ruddy face, went and stood at the door. Her mother glanced up at her and said, “What keeps Philip? Where is he gone?” “It isn’t late for him,” answered his mother; “he always runs down to ‘The Grapes’ after dinner on Sunday to see some of his friends.” “Does he?” said old Rhoda, in a peculiar voice. “And what about other days?” “He goes in evenings,” replied his mother. Rhoda Sperry became strangely agitated. Leaning forward, she said to her daughter, “Ruth! Ruth!” The girl half turned, revealing a crimsoned cheek. “Yes, mother,” she answered quietly. “Does he ever get drunk?” almost gasped the little old mother. “Very seldom,” answered Ruth, with her head cast down. “O, Ruth, what have I told you many314 and many a time? How I’ve warned you! But you shall not get into what I’ve suffered! You mustn’t have him, do you hear?—you mustn’t!” Ruth did not speak, but as she turned away she saw nothing of the beauty without for tears. “Hush! mother,” said the young widow, in a soothing voice; “you mustn’t worry yourself, or we shall not enjoy each other’s company to-day.” Rhoda leaned back in her chair, and wept quietly. Ruth went outside and sat on a bench under the window. In a few minutes her lover entered the garden with a jaunty step. “What’s up now, Ruth?” he asked, gayly. “What on earth have you got to cry about at such a time as this? and your mother, too, I declare! Why, what is the matter!” “It’s about your going to ‘The Grapes’ so often,” said his mother. “I’ve told you myself many a time, Phil, that no good can come of it, and that for Ruth’s sake you oughtn’t to go. It’s Sundays and weekdays just the same.” “Well what harm is there in it?” he315 asked, looking around at the disturbed faces with some amazement. His own was flushed with something more that the heat of the sun; and he was just in a mood to be either yielding or defiant. “I’ll tell you what,” said Ruth’s mother, looking up through great tears; “tell Ruth to come in, and let us all sit together here, while I answer your question.” Philip and Ruth came and sat beside her mother. Had it not been for that noisy moving just then, they would have heard a step on the flag-stones outside the window. As it was, the visitor outside took his seat close under the open window, where he could not be seen from within, and yet could hear every word that was spoken. Old Rhoda’s voice trembled much as she began, but steadied as she went on. “Thirty years ago, ay, more than that, thirty-five years ago,” she said, “two young folks were walking and whispering about these lanes, just as you two, Philip, do now—that was my Ned and me; and we were looking forward to many years of happiness, though we were not going the right way to get them. I was a proud, willful bit of a316 girl, more than twenty though—old enough to know better; and I would n’t listen to anything that mother or any body else said to me. I was blind and foolish, but mother could see clear enough what was to come; and though I did n’t believe her warnings, it did come, and a thousand times I’ve had to rue the day that I despised her anxious words; ah, bitterly rue it, too! Ned was almost such another as you, Philip—sometimes you remind me very much of him. He was a smart young fellow, spirited and gay, and he seemed to me kind-hearted, but really he was n’t so kind-hearted as he seemed. If he had been, there would have been some pleasant breaks, now and then, in the long, years of ill usage; but no, from the time when he gave himself quite up to drinking, there was nothing kind in him at all. He was like one possessed of a devil. But you know he was n’t like that from the first. No, no; he carried on just as you do now, Phil, going out at night and getting tipsy once in a while. Mother and all my friends entreated me to give him up; they said if he would n’t pay any heed to my words before marriage, he would be sure not to after.317 But I did n’t believe it. I thought when I was always with him, he would settle down into a good husband. Many a girl keeping company with a young fellow of loose habits thinks just so; but it is n’t often that things turn out as she expects. I pretty soon had to wake up to the truth of what I had done, and what a waking up it was! God pity any poor young thing that’s got to go through the same trial! At first my proud spirit kept me up, and helped me to hold out against Ned; but that soon gave way, and I seemed to sink down like one crushed and heart broken. To feel that every hope of home comfort and husband’s love is gone, and that one is tied for life to a man who is a curse instead of a blessing, is more than the most spirited woman could bear long. When my first baby was born—your husband that was, Jennie—I vowed before God that he should never touch that which had made a wreck of all my hopes, and I trained him up and you, too, you know, Ruth, to hate it, and keep from it forever. When he was old enough to think for himself, Arthur used to say he thought it wise of me to train him up to do so, and was glad that I had318 kept him from such dangerous temptation. To the day of his death he kept the promise he made me years ago, as faithful as could be, did n’t he, Jennie? and he was the better for it, and might have lived a healthy man for years, if he hadn’t met with that accident that was the death of him.” The young widow leaned her head on her mother-in-law’s lap and wept quietly. The old woman caressed it tenderly, as she proceeded:— “And Ruth I talked to and warned, and she promised to mind me; but since I’ve been away she seems to have forgotten her promise; and I suppose my last years are to be filled with sorrow by seeing her walk into the pit of misery that I walked into.” She paused a moment, and then continued: “But no, you must not do it, Ruth! I would rather see you now lying dead at my feet than that you should have the life I have had! What it was none but God knows. You need not think I went mad for nothing. All the wonder is to me how I kept my senses so long during those years of misery, and fear, and despair. Girls think it a very little thing that their sweethearts319 drink and get tipsy now and then; but they little know what may come of it. When the drink once gets anything like the mastery, it quenches everything—hope, happiness, love, life—everything. To think what my Ned would have been if it had not been for that! What a good kind husband and father! And what a happy, peaceable life I should have had! But everything has been ruined altogether; and now we must be separated to the end.” “You don't know, mother,” said Jennie, looking up. “Father has seemed broken down and better lately. Who knows but he might give up the drink altogether, and become good and kind in his old days, like my Arthur was? I was talking to him last week, and I am sure he was a bit repentant. He asked how we had found you at the asylum, and spoke of what a curse he had been to you.” “Ah, Jennie! it’s no use talking, dear. I shall never let myself hope any more. I’ve hoped and hoped, and been disappointed so many times, that I shall never do it again. But I want to save Ruth from all that. So, Philip, if you really love her, as you profess320 to do, give her proof of it now, before me, her mother, who has suffered so dreadfully.” “What do you want me to do?” asked Philip. “I want you to promise her now, on the word of a truthful and honest man, that you’ll never again touch that useless and dangerous drink, that is sure to change you, from a kind man to a savage unfeeling brute. I know Ruth doesn’t believe that; but did I believe it about my Ned?” “But suppose I shouldn’t keep my promise?” said Philip. “Of course you’d keep it, Philip,” answered old Rhoda. “Your manliness and your love for Ruth would make you keep it; but more than that, you can have God’s strength to help you; if you get that, there is no fear of breaking down.” Turning to Ruth, the mother added:
“Ruth, I wonder you have never put Philip’s love to the test before this. I should think after all you have seen, you would have done this, and not been so quiet about it.” “She has n’t been quiet, Mrs. Sperry,” said Philip. “She has spoken to me many times about it; but I have always laughed,321 it off; I did not think she was in real earnest; but now, tell me Ruth, do you really mean that it would make you happier and better satisfied with me, if I gave up drinking altogether, and became like your brother Arthur? Because if it would, I will do it. I hope I have too much love for you to let anything selfish trouble you, and destroy your happiness. Drinking is just one of my selfish habits; it gratifies me, but if it distresses you, I can give it up. So put me to the test, Ruth.” Ruth looked up into his honest face and said, “Will you promise, then, Philip, for your own sake, and mine and mother’s, to give it up altogether from this day?” “I will, indeed, Ruth,” he answered firmly, taking both her hands. “Phil,” she said tearfully, “if it was anything that lowered you in God’s sight or man’s, I would not wish you to do it, if it would gratify me ever so much. But it will not lower you; it will make you a better and truer man, and will bless you in body and soul, I know it will.” “Yes, I know that too, Ruth. I've many times been the worse for drink as regards322 my mind and body, my work, and everything. I know you would not wish me to do anything to my injury in any way; and if I know it, I will not do anything to yours.” At this moment, a tall, wasted, gray, old man appeared in the door-way, and gazed fixedly at the group before him. Old Rhoda started and turned pale, and Ruth rose in a tremor from her seat. “Ah, how frightened you all seem of me?” said the man in slow, sad tones. “No wonder, no wonder; for I’ve been a monster, haven’t I? But, Rhoda, I hear you haven’t forgotten the early days, and the love I once had for you. Well, it isn’t all dead yet; it never has been, though it’s been smothered for years and years. There’s some in my wicked old heart yet; and will you put it to the test, mother? Put it to the test, as you told Ruth to do to Philip just now. I’ve heard all you said; I’ve been sitting under the window.” Rhoda leaned back, a faint feeling came over her, and she closed her eyes. The old man went and stooped down beside her. “Rhoda, Rhoda,” he said, “I won’t ask you to come back and live with me now, not till323 I have shown you that I have repented sincerely; but now, if you’ve got ever such a bit of faith in me, put it to the test, and see if I don’t prove that I’m sorry with all my soul that I’ve been such a brute to you all these years.” “How shall I put you to the test, Ned?” asked his wife tremblingly. “As Ruth did Philip,” he replied. “And do you mean to say, Ned, that you will give up the drink altogether and forever?” “I do, Rhoda, in God’s strength.” Tears and blessings, gladness and thankfulness and love prevailed in the little room, making it a paradise of joy. Ah, how much happiness one such high and holy determination as this can give to human hearts! And what rejoicing in the sunshine after long and heavy storms. PUT YOURSELF IN MY PLACE.
I CANNOT wait any longer. I must have my money, and if you cannot pay it I must foreclose the mortgage and sell the place,” said Mr. Merton. “In that case,” said Mr. Bishop, “it will of course be sold at a great sacrifice, and after the struggles I have made, my family will again be homeless. It is hard. I only wish you had to earn your money as I do mine; you might then know something of the hard life of a poor man. If you could only in imagination, put yourself in my place, I think you would have a little mercy on me.” “It is useless talking; I extended this one year, and I can do so no longer,” replied Mr. Merton, as he turned to his desk and continued writing. The poor man rose from his seat, and walked sadly out of Mr. Merton’s office. His last hope was gone. He had just recovered325 from a long illness which had swallowed up the means with which he had intended to make the last payment on his house. True, Mr. Merton had waited one year when he failed to meet the demand owing to illness in his family, and he had felt very much obliged to him for so doing. This year he had been laid up for seven months, during which time he could earn nothing, and all his savings were then needed for the support of his family. Again he failed, and now he would again be homeless, and have to begin the world anew. Had Heaven forsaken him, and given him over to the tender mercies of the wicked? After he had left the office, Mr. Merton could not drive away from his thoughts the remark to which the poor man gave utterance, “I wish you had to earn your money as I do mine.” In the midst of a row of figures, “Put yourself in my place” intruded. Once after it had crossed his mind he laid down his pen, saying, “Well, I think I should find it rather hard. I have a mind to drop in there this afternoon and see how it fares with his family; that man has aroused my curiosity.” About five o’clock he put on a gray wig and some old cast-off clothes, and walked to the door. Mrs. Bishop, a pale, weary-looking woman opened it. The poor old man requested permission to enter and rest awhile, saying he was very tired with his long journey, for he had walked many miles that day. Mrs. Bishop cordially invited him in, and gave him the best seat the room afforded; she then began to make preparations for tea. The old gentleman watched her attentively. He saw there was no elasticity in her steps, no hope in her movements, and pity for her began to steal into his heart. When her husband entered, her features relaxed into a smile, and she forced a cheerfulness into her manner. The traveler noted it all, and he was forced to admire this woman who could assume a cheerfulness she did not feel, for her husband’s sake. After the table was prepared, there was nothing on it but bread and butter and tea, they invited the stranger to eat with them, saying, “We have not much to offer you, but a cup of tea will refresh you after your long journey.” He accepted their hospitality, and, as they327 discussed the frugal meal, led them without seeming to do so, to talk of their affairs. “I bought this piece of land,” said Mr. Bishop, “at a low price, and instead of waiting, as I ought to have done, until I saved the money to build, I thought I would borrow a few hundred dollars. The interest on the money would not be near as much as the rent I was paying, and I would save something by it. I did not think there would be any difficulty in paying back the money; but the first year my wife and one of the children were ill, and the expense left me without means to pay the debt. Mr. Merton agreed to wait another year if I would pay the interest, which I did. This year I was for seven months unable to work at my trade and earn anything, and, of course, when pay day comes around—and that will be very soon—I shall be unable to meet the demand.” “But,” said the stranger, “will not Mr. Merton wait another year, if you make all the circumstances known to him?” “No, sir,” replied Mr. Bishop; “I saw him this morning, and he said he must have the money and should be obliged to foreclose.” “He must be very hard hearted,” remarked the traveler. “Not necessarily so,” replied Mr. Bishop. “The fact is, these rich men know nothing of the struggles of the poor. They are men, just like the rest of mankind, and I am sure if they had but the faintest idea of what the poor have to pass through, their hearts and purses would open. You know it has passed into a proverb, ‘When a poor man needs help he should apply to the poor.’ The reason is obvious. Only the poor know the curse of poverty. They know how heavily it falls, crushing the heart of man, and (to use my favorite expression) they can at once put themselves in the unfortunate one’s place and appreciate difficulties, and are therefore ready to render assistance as far as they are able. If Mr. Merton had the least idea what I and my family had to pass through, I think he would be willing to wait several years for his money rather than distress us.” With what emotion the stranger listened may be imagined. A new world was being opened to him. He was passing through an experience that had never been his before. Shortly after the conclusion of the meal he329 arose to take his leave, thanking Mr. and Mrs. Bishop for their kind hospitality. They invited him to stay all night, telling him he was welcome to what they had. He thanked them and said, “I will trespass on your kindness no longer. I think I can reach the next village before dark, and be so much further on my journey.” Mr. Merton did not sleep much that night; he lay awake thinking. He had received a new revelation. The poor had always been associated in his mind with stupidity and ignorance, and the first poor family he had visited he had found far in advance, in intelligent sympathy and real politeness, of the exquisite and fashionable butterflies of the day. The next day a boy called at the cottage, and left a package in a large blue envelope, addressed to Mr. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop was very much alarmed when she took it, for large blue envelopes were associated in her mind with law and lawyers, and she thought that it boded no good. She put it away until her husband came home from his work, when she handed it to him. He opened it in silence, read its contents, and said, fervently, “Thank Heaven!” “What is it, John?” inquired his anxious wife. “Good news, wife,” replied John; “such news as I never hoped for or even dreamed of.” “What is it? What is it? Tell me quickly! I want to hear, if it’s anything good.” “Mr. Merton has canceled the mortgage; released me from the debt, both interest and principal; and says any time I need further assistance, if I will let him know, I shall have it.” “I am so glad! It puts new life into me,” said the now happy wife. “But what can have come over Mr. Merton?” “I do not know. It seems strange after the way he talked to me yesterday morning. I will go right over to Mr. Merton’s, and tell him how happy he has made us.” He found Mr. Merton in, and expressed his gratitude in glowing terms. “What could have induced you,” he asked, “to show us so much kindness?” “I followed your suggestion,” replied Mr. Merton, “and put myself in your place. I expect that it will surprise you very much to331 learn that the strange traveler to whom you showed so much kindness yesterday was myself.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Bishop, “can that be true? How did you disguise yourself so well?” “I was not so much disguised, after all; but you could not very readily associate Mr. Merton, the lawyer, with a poor wayfaring man.” “Well, it is a good joke,” said Mr. Bishop; “good in more senses than one. It has terminated very pleasantly for me.” “I was surprised,” said Mr. Merton, “at the broad and liberal views you expressed of men and their actions generally. I supposed I had greatly the advantage over you in means and education; yet how cramped and narrow minded have been my views beside yours! That wife of yours is an estimable woman, and that boy of yours will be an honor to any man. I tell you, Bishop,” said the lawyer, becoming animated, “you are rich—rich beyond what money could make; you have treasures that gold will not buy. I tell you, you owe me no thanks. Somehow I seem to have lived years since332 yesterday morning. What I have learned at your house is worth more than you owe me, and I am your debtor yet. Hereafter I shall take as my motto, ‘Put yourself in his place,’ and try to regulate my actions by it.” We cannot measure the need
Of even the tiniest flower,
Nor check the flow of the golden sands
That run through a single hour.
But the morning dews must fall,
And the sun and summer rain
Must do their part and perform it all,
Over and over again.
The path that has once been trod
Is never so rough to the feet;
And the lesson we once have learned
Is never so hard to repeat.
Though sorrowful tears may fall,
And the heart to its depths be driven
With storm and tempest; we need them all
To render us meet for heaven.
If not myself, then, who was I? Just so. Who was I? That’s the question. Perhaps, friendly reader, if I take you into my confidence, you will help me to see the matter in a clearer light, for I am just now in much obscurity. “I was not myself” at the time. My friends said so, and I said so. It was my—and their—only apology and excuse. “Mr. Jones is prudent and clear-headed and never would have gone it if he had been himself.” Every one assented to this, and I accepted the declaration as true. But how came it that I was not myself? Had I been to a “circle” or “seance?”
No; for I have no fancy for the sound of footfalls on the boundaries of another world. My business for the present is with embodied, and not with a vagrant crew of disembodied spirits. Was I suffering from temporary insanity? No one, so far as I know, ever hinted such a thing. Let me tell you the whole story. I think it will interest you. I am, or was, a merchant. For many years my business, under prudent management, had grown steadily, until the house over which I presided was known as one of the most prominent in the city. There are two pivots in every mercantile business on which success or failure rests—buying and selling. If the buyer of an establishment thoroughly understands his role, and the salesmen theirs, success, in ordinary circumstances, is almost sure; but if either be seriously at fault, ruin is quite as certain. I was, and always had been the buyer in our house. To this part of the business I gave careful and systematic attention, keeping myself posted in regard to stocks of leading goods in market, and the prospect of advancing or receding rates. To-day I would buy freely, when others hesitated, because I was better informed, or had, from long observation and experience, a kind of intuition as to the future prices; but to-morrow found me cautious on a different line of goods, and I touched them lightly while others bought heavily. The result335 nearly always proved my skill or prescience. There was no guess-work in all this. I was educated to it; and when I went to auction, or examined the importer’s samples, I knew to a fraction what the article offered for sale was worth in the market—whether stocks in first hands were large or small, and how much it would be prudent to buy. During a period of ten years, in which scarcely a day passed that I did not go to auction or visit the sample-room or store of some manufacturer, commission merchant or importer, no serious mistake in buying was made. In consequence, we were never caught with a large stock of anything on a falling market, but often got single advantages when prices went up. But something came over me about three years ago, and every now and then I would make a slight mistake that annoyed me exceedingly, for I had grown proud of my skill and reputation as a buyer. The first time this occurred, the mistake was so palpable that I made no attempt to excuse it. The case of goods I bought fell six cents a yard on the very next day. Every clerk in the store knew there would336 be a fall, and so did I. And yet, when the case was put up, I bid it off in my usual confident tone—the error flashing on me when it was too late for repair. “I don’t understand this,” I said to myself, greatly annoyed by the incident. “What could have possessed me? The blunder has no excuse.” And yet, strange to say, within a month I committed a worse blunder. Now, if I had fallen into habits of intemperance, the thing would have been plain. But this was not the case. I am temperate in all things, in eating as in drinking. I don’t mean that I am what is called a teetotaler for I consider myself a rational being, and so put myself under the government of reason, and not in bonds. I take a glass of wine, or ale, or brandy whenever I think I need it, and expect to continue doing so until I find that it does me harm, which is not yet. I can stop whenever I please. Well, as I was saying, within a month I committed a worse blunder; stocking our shelves with a line of goods that fell twenty per cent, I was annoyed, bewildered, confounded. “What has come over me? Am I losing my senses?” So I talked to myself. “There isn’t a buyer of six months’ experience that wouldn’t have known better.” I put as good a face on the matter as possible, and resolved never to be “caught napping again.” Naturally, I was sensitive about the mistakes committed, and the remotest allusion to them annoyed me. One of my partners, whose faith in my judgment, these lapses had disturbed, ventured now and then a word of caution, especially when I was about going to some large sale. I was never able to repress my irritation at this; and we had sharp words now and then, in consequence. A great sale of goods, in our line, had been advertised in New York; the invoices covering, in the aggregate, nearly a quarter of a million dollars. “Buy cautiously,” said the partner whose faith in my judgment had been impaired. “Hadn’t you better go yourself?” I answered testily. He looked at me with troubled eyes but made no response. I went over to New York in the evening338 train, in company with several merchants on the same errand with myself. They talked up the matter of stocks of goods, the effect this heavy sale would have on prices, and the probable future of the market. Opinions differed. Some held that prices would advance, and some that they would recede. I listened and said but little, as was my habit; but carefully weighed all the pros and cons, and considering all the reasons urged on both sides. When I reached New York, my mind was made up to buy with great caution. It was barely possible that one or two leading capitalists in the trade might purchase heavily on speculation, and hold for an advance; in that case, other buyers would make a good thing of it. But if the large stock went into several hands, each taking pretty freely, some, more eager to sell than the rest, might press the market, and cause a serious decline in prices. I saw this clearly, and resolved to purchase only to the extent of supplying our immediate wants. But during the evening this purpose was disturbed, and a different view adopted. “Come to my room,” said a well-known merchant who had been with me in the cars. It was after supper. “Two or three friends are to drop in for a talk over a bottle of wine about to-morrow’s sale.” I went with him to his room. In a short time two merchants from my own city, and one resident in New York, joined us. Wine and cigars were ordered, and we spent two or three hours together, drinking, smoking and talking about the sale. I have never been able to recall the data and reasonings by which I passed to the conclusion that my role on the next day was to be that of a heavy, instead of a light buyer; but when I went to bed that night, such was my fixed purpose. I lay awake for a long time, pleasing my fancy with golden results that were sure to come from to-morrow’s business. I counted the profits of our houses tens of thousands of dollars. Thought ran riot over the gains I would not fail to secure. In thinking back to this night, I have always felt that I was not my real self—that in some way, the perception of reasoning of another mind was superinduced upon my own—that my experience, clear judgment340 and prudence were lost for a period, and that my mental powers were operated by some volition foreign to my own. I was not myself. That is certain. I was not fully myself on next morning. On rising, my head ached in a dull way, and my brain was slightly confused. It was not clear to me that I was to make the fortune of our house by bidding off at the coming sale to the amount of fifty or a hundred thousand dollars. The wet blanket of doubt chilled my night’s enthusiasm. But a glass of brandy and water, followed by coffee and breakfast, cleared my head, gave life to my pulse, and tension to my nerves. I met my friend of the evening before, and we spent an hour previous to the sale in talking up the business of the day, and then, after emptying a bottle or two of wine, repaired to the auction rooms, which we found crowded with merchants from all parts of the country. I was in a state of confidence and exhilaration—never had a clearer head, so it seemed, nor saw my way more distinctly. Terms were announced, and the sale began. Bidding was cautious at first, and a few lots341 were struck down at figures so low that I remember feeling disturbed as well as surprised. But the impression faded in a moment. On the next lot, I bid at the figure last obtained. Some one advanced, and I went higher promptly. The goods were mine, no one going above me. “Do you take the whole lot—forty cases?” asked the auctioneer. “The whole,” I answered in a confident way that caused many to turn and look at me. The sale went on, growing more spirited as it progressed, new bidders ventured in at every successive lot. I forgot everything but my purpose to buy heavily, and make the fortune of our house. A single idea possessed me, and that was the certain great advance in the price of the goods now being sold. I was as sure of this as of my existence, and felt a kind of contempt for the timid buyers, who, with the opportunity of a hundred cases, took only five or ten. At two o’clock, I left the heated auction rooms with flushed face and throbbing temples. As the fresh air struck upon me with its grateful coolness, I seemed to pass into a342 new world of thought and perception. I was myself again—my clear headed self, poised amid my own business experience and convictions. What a shiver ran down to my heart as the fact that I had just bid over sixty thousand dollars on a single line of goods looked me darkly in the face. “Impossible!” I exclaimed, standing still, and catching my breath, for I seemed, for the instant, as if in a vacuum.—“Impossible! That would be ruin!” And it was ruin! On the day after the sale, the goods that I had bought for a rise, fell twenty per cent, and steadily declined day after day, until they were fifty per cent below the figures I had paid. Stunned and bewildered by the peril in which my blind recklessness had plunged our house, we failed to do the only wise thing, that was to sell at once, and accept the inevitable loss of twelve thousand dollars. But none of us had the courage to look that disaster fairly in the face. “The market will surely rally,” we said. But it did not rally. We struggled with our fate, resorting to all kinds of expedients343 to keep our ship afloat—plunging, buffeting; gasping amid the waves, until in storm and darkness the goodly vessel was stranded. We saved little from the wreck. My partners gathered what to them remained, and started on a new business venture, leaving me out. Yes, I was left out—out in the cold, where I have been shivering ever since. I was not myself when I bid so blindly. That my partners said—that our business friends, who pitied us, said—and that I said emphatically. But, if not myself, who was I? You see, reader, I am back to where I started. Ever since the memorable day when I went to that auction room, and acted the blind, overconfident, reckless speculator, instead of the cool, experienced, cautious business man that I am and was, I have puzzled my brain over this question. Can evil spirits, who love to do us harm, get, through some strange process unknown to us, a temporary possession of our mental machinery, and drive it to our hurt or ruin? I have thought so sometimes. What happened to me, I have seen happen to others at various times in my life. One344 of the shrewdest and most wary buyers I ever knew, lost, suddenly, as I did, on a single occasion, his clearness of judgment, and involved his house in a heavy loss. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, when I asked him about it. “Somehow, I was not myself on that day.” He looked puzzled and worried when he said this. A thought comes flashing across the darkness of my mind as I write, and startles me! Can it bring the solution? Let me ponder. My brain did not have its normal steadiness and coolness on that night at the hotel, when we discussed the coming sale. Why! Was it the fatigue of riding in the cars? No! I was used to that, and not fatigued. The supper? Of course not. The wine? I have walked the floor, since writing the last sentence, in much agitation, and now sit down in a calmer state and with a clearer brain. I am afraid it was the wine? My judgment was clear when I went, on the night before the sale, to the room of my business friend, and clouded when I left it, and yet it seemed clear. That is strange. It was an erroneous judgment, and false in the light of my own true intelligence, and345 yet it looked fair to me that night. Perception was inverted. How? Why? I was not my own self. On the next morning, this false judgment was in a wavering state. The convictions of the night previous were not so clear. I had disturbed doubts and troublesome questionings. I was by no means so confident that an advance in the market was to follow this large sale. What dispersed these doubts? What restored my confidence? Was it the nerve quieting brandy before, and the exhilarating wine after breakfast? Did they give back that abnormal state of the brain, the result of unnatural stimulus, through which I became, as it were, another, and not myself—acting the part of a blind and foolish speculator, instead of the wise and prudent merchant that in my real self I was? How is it? I am startled and shocked at such a view of the case. Strange, that this old saying should just now intrude itself—“When the wine is in, the wit is out!” There is no gainsaying that. And I, too, am out—out in the cold, and all for what? a glass or two of brandy, and a bottle of wine?