Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 4

at the other end of which Nick lived, they came to the village dram-shop. Forgetting all that had passed, the willing shoemaker stopped and listened. He could hear the clinking sound of glasses ringing on the night air, mingled with the maudlin shouts and songs of his boon companions. The old feeling returned; he grew weak in his resolution, and, turning to the Goblin, said, "Just come in and have one drink with me--the last one." Immediately the imprudent Nick was thrown violently to the ground, the houses trembled, and their shutters rattled from their fastenings. The whole town seemed falling into ruins. Nick was startled into wakefulness, and a sweet, cheery voice called, "Nick, Nick, are you going to lie in bed all day? It is a bright Christmas morning and the children are half frantic to show you the presents Santa Claus has brought them."
"My dear, are you sure I am Nick Baba, the village shoemaker, and that you are his wife?"
"Certainly. Why ask such a question?"
"Then I have had a frightfully vivid dream," explained he to his wife, "for I seemed to have fallen back into my old habits of intemperance and to have dragged you down with me, where I had hoped never to see you again."
"Nick, dear, it was but a dream. Remember you took your last drink just three years ago; do you feel strong enough yet to resist it?"
"Yes, I do; and now that I am sure it was only the nightmare, I will hasten and join you and the children at breakfast."
* * * * *

A TRIP TO CURRITUCK.
On a Monday, in the month of November, we started on our annual trip to the marshes of North Carolina. We left Washington armed and equipped, and met, at Norfolk, four of our party who had left New York the previous week. They had been spending a few days in Princess Anne County, quail shooting, where they had labored hard with no success to speak of--the birds were few, the ground heavy, and they quit that locality, perfectly willing never to return to it. They arrived in Norfolk heartily sick of that excursion. We got the traps all together and made a start for our favorite sporting grounds; where the merest tyro may do satisfactory execution, and come in at night with a keen appetite for the next day's sport.
While waiting for the quail party to return, we strolled through the old city of Norfolk, with its quaint houses and curiously-winding streets, and wandered into the old-time burial place surrounding St. Paul's church.
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 1739.]
This is one of the oldest places of worship in the United States; it was erected before the Revolution, and is built of imported brick, laid alternately, red and black. The figures, giving the date of erection, 1739, are rudely worked into the wall--projecting far enough to make the design perfectly plain. When the town was burnt by the British, 1775, only the walls of this sacred edifice were left standing. The enemy relieved it of a very fine marble baptismal font, and also of the communion plate, which were carried to Scotland. On the gable end of the building, still fast in the wall, may be seen a cannon ball which was fired from the British ship, Liverpool. The church stands in the customary grave yard of those days, and contains the remains of persons interred as early as 1700. Near the door stands the tomb-stone of Col. Samuel Boush, who gave the land on which this house of worship stands. Many of his relatives also rest there. Some of the stones, marking places of interment, are covered with mosses and creeping plants; the inscriptions on others are almost obliterated by the ravages of time; still others have fallen or been broken, and now lean in every direction over the last earthly resting-place of those who thought to tell coming generations who reposed beneath. This is one of the weaknesses of mankind, but it is vain.
Let them pile up costly and lofty monuments--reaching heavenward; let the artist cut their names and virtues deep into the enduring granite; let the mechanic, with all his skill, set the foundations, yet the lettering will perish and the stone will crumble. Parasitic plants will fasten upon them; beneath their destroying grasp names and dates will disappear, and generations yet to come will be unable to tell whether they look upon the grave of a prince or upon that of a peddler--the narrow house of him who retired to the straw pallet of poverty, will not then be known from that of him who reclined upon the silken couch of affluence--
"Death levels all ranks, And lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre."
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 1878.]
"On it, time his mark has hung;