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