For a moment he was in doubt, the nature of the request being so unexpected; but for once he allowed his better nature to have sway, and consented on condition that they would come home early. They were soon on their way, as happy as the birds on a sunny morning.
Henry and Eliza were delighted to see them, and entertained them by giving a minute account of all that transpired in the Sunday-school; they also gave them some of the cards and papers which they had received there.
George and Mary kept their promise to “come home early.” Whilst they were showing their mother the Sunday-school cards and papers, their father entered the room. He became very angry upon being thus reminded of the subject so disagreeable to him; so, seizing the children’s gifts, he tore them into pieces and then threw them out the window, and declared that the children should never go to Mr. Brown’s again. The result of such a course on his part, was that the hearts of his children were hardened against him; they felt that they had been unkindly and unjustly treated, and they very soon became irritable and peevish in disposition. Their father soon discovered the change, and knowing the cause, he determined to restore them to their usual spirits by affording them amusement; so he induced them to seek new playmates, among those who did not attend Sunday-school. They obeyed; but, at first, such company was exceedingly disagreeable to them, for the children with whom they associated were profane and vulgar and did not regard God’s Holy day. They had been taught by their mother that such conduct was wrong; but the father now ruled with a rod of iron, and all were compelled to bend to his will.
The downward course is rapid; it was but a few short years before George and Mary, surrounded by such influence, could mock with the mocker, at the prayer-meeting and Sunday-school.
The father, annoyed by the success of the good cause, and a consciousness of wrong-doing, sought relief in drink—hence he was thrown into the society of the worthless, vulgar drunkards, who lie around the haunts of vice. Insensibly, he was drifting down to irretrievable ruin!
He never expected to be a drunkard—not he! No, he could drink when he pleased, and let it alone when he pleased. He would show “that crazy Truman,” that a man could govern his appetite, and that he did not speak the truth when he said that confirmed whisky-drinkers would fill drunkards’ graves.
He found out to his own sorrow who spoke the truth; for the time came when he was compelled to give up his comfortable home to satisfy the tavern-keeper’s demands. His wife, through disappointment and abuse, lost her health and died broken-hearted, before her husband and children had run their whole course of sin.
