THERE was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. His
farm, once the best tilled and most productive in the neighbourhood,
began to show evidences of neglect and unfruitfulness; and that he
was going behindhand in the world, was too apparent in the fact,
that, within two years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and,
moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three hundred dollars
on a mortgage of his landed property. And yet, Mr. Bacon had not
laid aside his habits of industry. He was up, as of old, with the
dawn, and turned not his feet homeward from the field until the sun
had taken his parting glance from the distant hill-tops.
A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Bacon, well liked by
all his neighbours, and loved by his own household. His two oldest
children died ere reaching the age of manhood; three remained. Mary
Bacon, the eldest of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year,
had been from earliest childhood her father's favourite; and, as she
advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more and more into his
heart. In his eyes she was very beautiful; and his eyes, though
partial, did not deceive him very greatly, for Mary's face was fair
to look upon.
We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheerful-minded man.
And so he was; kind-hearted and cheerful, even though clouds were
beginning to darken above him, and a sigh from the coming tempest
was in the air. Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though
never moody nor perverse in his tempers. Of the change that was in
progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, he did not seem
to be _painfully_ conscious.
Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. A
habit indulged through many years, had acquired a dangerous
influence over him, and was gradually destroying his rational
ability to act well in the ordinary concerns of life. As a young
man, Mr. Bacon drank "temperately," and he drank "temperately" in
the prime of life; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink
"temperately," that is, in his own estimation. There were many,
however, who had reason to think differently. But Mr. Bacon was no
bar-room lounger; in fact, he rarely, if ever, went to a public
house; it was in his own home and among his household treasures,
that he placed to his lips the cup of confusion.
The various temperance reforms had all found warm advocates among
his friends and neighbours; but Mr. Bacon stood aloof. He would have
nothing to do in these matters.
"Let them join temperance societies who feel themselves in danger,"
was his good natured answer to all argument or persuasion addressed
to him on the subject.
He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement. He thought it a good
thing; only, he had in it no personal interest.
And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking "temperately" until habit, from
claiming a moderate indulgence, began to make, so it seemed to his
friends, rather unreasonable demands. Besides this habit of
drinking, Mr. Bacon had another habit, that of industry; and, what
was unusual, the former did not abate the latter, though it must be
owned that it sadly interfered with its efficiency. He was up, as we
have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy at work; but,
somehow or other, his land did not produce as liberally as in former
times, and there was slowly creeping over every thing around him an
aspect of decay. Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly,
the selling part of his business. In fact, his shrewdness of mind
was gone. Alcohol had confused his brain. Gradually he was
retrograding; and, while more than half conscious of the ruin that
was in advance of him, he was not fully enough awake to feel
seriously alarmed, nor to begin anxiously to seek for the cause of
impending evil. And so it went on until Mr. Bacon, suddenly found
himself in the midst of real trouble. The value of his farm, which,
after parting with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but
twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in consequence of bad
culture, and defective management of his stock had reduced that
until it was of little consequence.
The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who kept a tavern
in the village that lay a mile distant from the little white
farm-house of Mr. Bacon. When Dyer commenced his liquor-selling
trade, for that was his principal business, he had only a few
hundred dollars; now he was worth thousands, and was about the only
man in the neighbourhood who had money to lend. His loans were
always made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable,
that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer or
store-keeper have a single dollar. But, a drinking man, who was
gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to him in vain; for
he was the cunning spider watching for the silly fly. More than one
worn-out and run-down farm had already come into his hands, through
the foreclosure of mortgages, at a time of business depression, when
his helpless victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save
them from ruin.
One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood at his rather
poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper rode up. There was
something in his countenance that sent a creeping sense of fear to
the heart of the farmer.
"Good morning, Mr. Dyer," said he.
"Good morning," returned the tavern-keeper, formally. His usual
smile was absent from his face.
"Sharp day, this."
"Yes, rather keen."
"Won't you walk in and take something?"
"No, thank you. H-h-e-em!"
There was a pause.
"Mr. Bacon."
The farmer's eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of Dyer.
"Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them three
hundred dollars," said the tavern-keeper, in a firm voice.
"Can't pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer," returned Bacon, with a
troubled expression; "no use to think of it."
"Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his money. I told
you when I lent it that I might want it at almost any time."
"Oh! no, Mr. Dyer. It was understood, distinctly, that from four to
six months' notice would be given," replied Mr. Bacon, positively.
"Preposterous!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper. "Never thought of such
a thing. Six months notice, indeed!"
"That was the agreement," said Mr. Bacon, firmly.
"Is it in the bond?"
"No, it was verbal, between us."