Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 4

sure."
Hesitatingly the cobbler agreed that he would not taste the accursed
stuff again; but made it a condition that his new-found friend should

accompany him as far as where he lived in such wretchedness.
"I have no objection," replied the Goblin, "if you will not walk too fast,
for I cannot keep pace with you."
"Why, I will carry you," said the grateful Nick, and seizing the little
conjuror in his arms, walked off with him easily.
When they had proceeded about half the length of the street, 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