An indefatigable temperance advocate, Timothy Shay Arthur (1809–1885) wrote more than two hundred novels during his lifetime. His best-selling novel Ten Nights in a Bar-Room, and What I Saw There is told from the point of view of an unnamed narrator who witnesses the degradation wrought on an all-American town by the opening of a tavern. The book’s most heartrending story describes the death of Mary Morgan, a young girl who, each night, would brave the outdoors to fetch her drunken father, Joe, from the bar. One night, Joe Morgan quarrels with the bar’s owner, Simon Slade, and as tempers rise, Slade throws a glass at Morgan. It misses its target and strikes Mary as she enters the room in search of her father. The following scene takes place the next morning at the Morgan home as Joe sleeps off his hangover and Mary’s condition worsens. Also present in the scene are Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Slade.
Mary closed her eyes, wearily. How deathly white was her face—how sunken her eyes—how sharply contracted her features!
“I’ve given her up, Mrs. Slade,” said Mrs. Morgan, in a low, rough, choking whisper, as she leaned nearer to her friend. “I’ve given her up! The worst is over; but, oh! it seemed as though my heart would break in the struggle. Dear child! In all the darkness of my way, she has helped and comforted me. Without her, it would have been the blackness of darkness.”
“Father! father!” The voice of Mary broke out with a startling quickness.
Mrs. Morgan turned to the bed, and laying her hand on Mary’s arm said—
“He’s still sound asleep, dear.”
“No, he isn’t, mother. I heard him move. Won’t you go in and see if he is awake?”
In order to satisfy the child, her mother left the room. To her surprise, she met the eyes of her husband as she entered the chamber where he lay. He looked at her calmly.
“What does Mary want with me?” he asked.
“She wishes to see you. She’s called you so many, many times. Shall I bring her in here?” . . .
“Father! father!” The clear, earnest voice of Mary was heard calling.
“I’m coming, dear,” answered Morgan.
“Come quick, father, won’t you?”
“Yes, love.” And Morgan got up and dressed himself—but with unsteady hands, and every sign of nervous prostration. In a little while, with the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and, supported by her, came tottering into the room where Mary was lying.
“Oh, father!”—What a light broke over her countenance— “I’ve been waiting for you so long. I thought you were never going to wake up. Kiss me, father.”
“What can I do for you, Mary?” asked Morgan, tenderly, as he laid his face down upon the pillow beside her.
“Nothing, father. I don’t wish for anything. I only wanted to see you.”
“I’m here, now, love.”
“Dear father!” How earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small hand upon his face. “You’ve always been good to me, father.”
“Oh, no. I’ve never been good to anybody,” sobbed the weak, broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow.
How deeply touched was Mrs. Slade, as she sat, the silent witness of this scene!
“You haven’t been good to yourself, father—but you’ve always been good to us.”
“Don’t, Mary! Don’t say anything about that,” interposed Morgan. “Say that I’ve been very bad—very wicked. Oh, Mary, dear! I only wish that I was as good as you are; I’d like to die, then, and go right away from this evil world. I wish there was no liquor to drink —no taverns—no bar-rooms. Oh dear! Oh dear! I wish I was dead.”
And the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud.
What an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room!
“Father.” The stillness was broken by Mary. Her voice was clear and even. “Father, I want to tell you something?”
“What is it, Mary?”
“There’ll be nobody to go for you, father.” The child’s lips now quivered, and tears filled into her eyes.
“Don’t talk about that, Mary. I’m not going out in the evening any more until you get well. Don’t you remember I promised?”
“But, father”—She hesitated.
“What, dear?”
“I’m going away to leave you and mother.”
“Oh, no—no—no, Mary! Don’t say that.”—The poor man’s voice was broken.— “Don’t say that! We can’t let you go, dear.”
“God has called me.” The child’s voice had a solemn tone, and her eyes turned reverently upward.
“I wish he would call me! Oh, I wish he would call me!” groaned Morgan, hiding his face in his hands. “What shall I do when you are gone? Oh dear! Oh dear!”
“Father!” Mary spoke calmly again. “You are not ready to go yet. God will let you live here longer, that you may get ready.”
“How can I get ready without you to help me, Mary? My angel child!”
“Haven’t I tried to help you, father, oh, so many times?” said Mary.
“Yes—yes—you’ve always tried.”
“But it wasn’t any use. You would go out—you would go to the tavern. It seemed almost as if you couldn’t help it.”
Morgan groaned in spirit.
“Maybe I can help you better, father, after I die. I love you so much, that I am sure God will let me come to you, and stay with you always, and be your angel. Don’t you think he will, mother?”
But Mrs. Morgan’s heart was too full. She did not even try to answer, but sat, with streaming eyes, gazing upon her child’s face.
“Father, I dreamed something about you, while I slept to-day.” Mary again turned to her father.
“What was it, dear?”
“I thought it was night, and that I was still sick. You promised not to go out again until I was well. But you did go out; and I thought you went over to Mr. Slade’s tavern. When I knew this, I felt as strong as when I was well, and I got up and dressed myself, and started out after you. But I hadn’t gone far, before I met Mr. Slade’s great bull-dog Nero, and he growled at me so dreadfully that I was frightened and ran back home. Then I started again, and went away round by Mr. Mason’s. But there was Nero in the road, and this time he caught my dress in his mouth and tore a great piece out of the skirt. I ran back again, and he chased me all the way home. Just as I got to the door, I looked around, and there was Mr. Slade, setting Nero on me. As soon as I saw Mr. Slade, though he looked at me very wicked, I lost all my fear, and turning around, I walked past Nero, who showed his teeth, and growled as fiercely as ever, but didn’t touch me. Then Mr. Slade tried to stop me. But I didn’t mind him, and kept right on, until I came to the tavern, and there you stood in the door. And you were dressed so nice. You had on a new hat and a new coat; and your boots were new, and polished just like Judge Hammond’s. I said—‘O father! is this you?’ And then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said— ‘Yes, Mary, I am your real father. Not old Joe Morgan—but Mr. Morgan now.’ It seemed all so strange, that I looked into the bar-room to see who was there. But it wasn’t a bar-room any longer; but a store full of goods. The sign of the Sickle and Sheaf was taken down; and over the door I now read your name, father. Oh! I was so glad, that I awoke—and then I cried all to myself, for it was only a dream.”
The last words were said very mournfully, and with a drooping of Mary’s lids, until the tear-gemmed lashes lay close upon her cheeks. Another period of deep silence followed—for the oppressed listeners gave no utterance to what was in their hearts. Feeling was too strong for speech. Nearly five minutes glided away, and then Mary whispered the name of her father, but without opening her eyes.
Morgan answered, and bent down his ear.
“You will only have mother left,” she said—“only mother. And she cries so much when you are away.”
“I won’t leave her, Mary, only when I go to work,” said Morgan, whispering back to the child. “And I’ll never go out at night anymore.”
“Yes; you promised me that.”
“And I’ll promise more.”
“What, father?”
“Never to go into a tavern again.”
“Never!”
“No, never. And I’ll promise still more.”
“Father?”
“Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live.”
“Oh, father! dear, dear father!”
And with a cry of joy Mary started up and flung herself upon his breast. Morgan drew his arms tightly around her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek—while she lay against his bosom as still as death. As death? Yes; for, when the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the angels of the resurrection!
Source: T. S. Arthur, Ten Nights in a Bar-Room, and What I Saw There (Bedford, MA: Applewood Books, 2000), 88–94. Reprint of original publication (Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo & Co., 1854).
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