We will descend to the first floor.

A man dressed shabbily, and with a three days'
beard on his face, was stretched at length before
the embers of a fire, which glimmered
from the hearth. There was no carpet on the
floor; a rude couch stood in one corner, and
beside it a solitary chair.

On the chair was seated a woman of some
twenty-five years, who had wound a ragged
quilt about her form, and gathering her babe
under its folds, gazed in silence at the prostrate
form of her husband. Her hair hung loosely
on her shoulders, and on her pallid face the
last extreme of poverty — the want of bread,
of fire, of sleep — was painted but too vividly.

“Curse it, there goes the last cheer, and not
a drop left in the bottle,” growled the man,
gazing gloomily into the embers, as he raised
himself upon his elbows.

“If you'd only leave the bottle alone, John,”
said the wife, endeavoring to drown the faint
cry of the babe — “I would not care if all the
cheers in the world were burnt to pieces — no
more I wouldn't. Nor if all the houses —
h-u-s-h a-b-a-b-y — nor if all the houses was
burned to death a'top o' th' cheers. An' the
rum-shops, too, John, they would make a good
fire, wouldn't they, with their owners inside o'
'em?”

“Come Nancy, don't twit upon facts,” returned
John, as he stirred the embers with the
empty bottle; “I've got a touch of the tremens
on me, girl, and that's enough without twittin
on facts.'

“I wish to Heaven,” said the wife, rather
spitefully “that all the bottles in the world, and
all the liquor in 'em, and all the men as sells
it, was at the Devil, for from the Devil they
come, and to the Devil, them and all as meddles
with 'em is sure to go. Sure to go,” she repeated,
rocking in her chair, as the cry of the
boy drowned her voice.

“Did I tech liquor this time a year ago?”
John raised himself with one hand and gazed

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

fiercely toward his wife; “S-a-y? This time a
year ago did I tech the cursed stuff?”

The voice of the wife was milder when she
replied —

“No you didn't, John — I'll give you justice
there. A year ago our baby was just born,
and we were living so comfortably in Poplar
street — our home was small, but we had a
house to ourselves — and every Saturday night
you came home like a man and with your
airnins in your hand —”

“Then I must set up shop for myself,” interrupted
John, as his large grey eyes, caught
the glow of the fire “and then —”

The wife did not reply. Burying his face
against the babe which nestled to her breast,
she burst into tears.

John's chin began to quiver. He rubbed
his hand over the tattered sleeve, which only
half concealed the outline of his muscular arm,
and then ran his fingers through his short brown
hair, gazing all the while into the embers on the
narrow hearth.

“Isr'el Bonus,” he said to himself, “What
a comfortable thing it would be to see you
roastin' there — wouldn't it, Nancy?”

He burst into a fit of nervous laughter,
which effectually silenced the sobbing of his
wife and the moans of his child.

“Why John, thee is sitting idle here, when
everybody else is gone to meeting. I am
ashamed of thee, John.”

“Isr'el Bonus,” fairly shouted John, as he
turned his head over his shoulder, and gazed
at the intruder.

Yes, it was Israel Bonus, fair top boots,
bone-headed cane, broad-rimmed hat and all.
Beneath the broad-rim appear a ruddy face, all
sprinkled over with smiles, and under the double
chin, glared a white cravat, which flowered
into ruffles over his capacious chest. Israel
Bonus may have been forty years of age, and
he may have been sixty; at all events he was
exceedingly well-preserved; from his small
eyes, hidden in wrinkles, down to the wrinkles
of his top-boot, there was an air of jocund good
humor about the man. He stood in the open
doorway, applying his heavy cane to his nose,
while his double chin kept waggling like a
saucer of “floating island,” a condiment well
known to confectioners and small evening
parties. A suit of drab, with spacious pockets,
clothed Israel's somewhat bulky form, and his
enemies — every good man has enemies —
were wont to murmur certain ridiculous words
about a Wolf of Traffic being hidden under
the sheep's clothing of William Penn. At
what meeting he worshipped we cannot say,
but know for a verity, that his creed was Orthodox,
and that he held in equal contempt
tenants who could not pay their rent, and Infidels
who went about talking of the miseries of
the Poor.

Horse-racing, gambling, going to theatres —
none of these vices belonged to him. Much
less could he be charged with the sin of encouraging
idleness by giving a stray copper to the
vagrants along the street; he was free from any
such gross wickedness. People spoke of
certain singular matters which transpired at
his bachelor home, where he was continually
changing his housekeepers, and getting new
ones; but People tell falsehoods, and Israel
Bonus was a just man. Rumors there also
were about a Big Bottle, which stood on his
side-board, and which often consoled the good
man after a hard day's work in Mortgages or
an unusual stress of Sheriff's sales. But the
Bottle only contained a weak mixture of rum
and water for his rheumatism; he was afflieted
often with the rheumatism, was the good Israel
Bonus.

“Thee is a pretty fellow, to be idling in
thee home, when every body is gone to meeting,”
said Israel — who, by the bye, used the
word “thee” in all places, and with a refreshing
contempt for Lindley Murray.

“Isr'el,” said John, in a very meaning way,
as he looked over his shoulder at the good
Bonus, “It's Sunday night, but how'd you like
to make an honest penny?”

Israel's small eyes twinkled amid their wrinkles,
and drawing near, he laid the head of his
cane against his nose, exclaiming in a whisper —

“W-e-l-l! How thee does talk, John Cattermill—
a penny did thee say? How?”

John then commenced a narrative, which
the good Bonus listened to, with all his ears
and soul.