“True!” said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass; “we cannot be too much so.  We must avoid rum and gin as we would a viper!  How I abhor the very name of rum!  O, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery it has brought upon man!  I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-hearted creature.  She was married to an industrious man; all was fair, prospects bright.  By degrees he got into bad company; he forgot his home, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, and filled a drunkard’s grave!  She, poor creature, went into a fever, became delirious, raved day after day, and, heaping curses upon him who sold her husband rum, died.  Since then, I have looked upon rum as a curse; but brandy,—­it is a gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, a fine drink, and it can do no harm.”

Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edward, who, having taken the first, found it very easy to take the second, did the same.  Yet his conscience smote him; he felt that he was doing wrong.

Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the serpent’s glistening eyes, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was he at that moment.  He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind the charm.

This is no fictitious tale.  Would to Heaven it contained less of truth!  The world has seen many men like “Mr. Pump,” and many have through their instrumentality fallen; many not to rise till ages shall have obliterated all memory of the past, with all its unnatural loves!  Whilst others, having struggled on for years, have at length seen a feeble ray of light penetrating the dark clouds that overshadowed their path, which light continued to increase, till, in all its beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, by which they strove ever after to be guided.

It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left.  The two had become quite sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusual gayety of Edward.

The latter was not lost to reflection; and now that he was alone, thoughts of home, his business, and many other matters, came confusedly into his mind.

Letters he had received of warning and advice.  He took them in his hands, looked over their contents, and with feelings of sadness, and somewhat of remorse, thought of his ways.

A bundle of old letters!  A circle of loved friends!  How alike!  There is that’s pleasant, yet sad, in these.  How vividly they present to our view the past!  The writers, some, perhaps, are dead; others are far away.  Yet, dead or alive, near or far distant, we seem to be with them as we read their thoughts traced out on the sheet before us.

As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as though his friends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which conscience whispered should be heeded.  Love was the theme of not a few, yet all warned him to flee from evil.  He returned the parcel, and, as he did so, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be with moderation:  and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, to abstain altogether.