children. Mrs. Fletcher sat down to the piano, and the Sabbath was
closed with the happy songs of the little ones; nor could I notice a
single anxious eye turning to the window to see if the sun was not
almost down. The tender and softened expression of each countenance bore
witness to the subduing power of those instructions which had hallowed
the last hour, and their sweet, bird-like voices harmonized well with
the beautiful words,--
"How sweet the light of Sabbath eve!
How soft the sunbeam lingering there!
Those holy hours this, low earth leave,
And rise on wings of faith and prayer."
LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
"And so you will not sign this paper?" said Alfred Melton to his cousin,
a fine-looking young man, who was lounging by the centre table.
"Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do with these decidedly vulgar
temperance pledges? Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in their very
essence!"
"Come, come, Cousin Melton," said a brilliant, dark-eyed girl, who had
been lolling on the sofa during the conference, "I beg of you to give
over attempting to evangelize Edward. You see, as Falstaff has it, 'he
is little better than one of the wicked.' You must not waste such
valuable temperance documents on him."
"But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow," resumed Edward, "this signing,
and sealing, and pledging is altogether an unnecessary affair for me. My
past and present habits, my situation in life,--in short, every thing
that can be mentioned with regard to me,--goes against the supposition
of my ever becoming the slave of a vice so debasing; and this pledging
myself to avoid it is something altogether needless--nay, by
implication, it is degrading. As to what you say of my influence, I am
inclined to the opinion, that if every man will look to himself, every
man will be looked to. This modern notion of tacking the whole
responsibility of society on to every individual is one I am not at all
inclined to adopt; for, first, I know it is a troublesome doctrine; and,
secondly, I doubt if it be a true one. For both which reasons, I shall
decline extending to it my patronage."
"Well, positively," exclaimed the lady, "you gentlemen have the gift of
continuance in an uncommon degree. You have discussed this matter
backward and forward till I am ready to perish. I will take the matter
in hand myself, and sign a temperance pledge for Edward, and see that he
gets into none of those naughty courses upon which you have been so
pathetic."
"I dare say," said Melton, glancing on her brilliant face with evident
admiration, "that you will be the best temperance pledge he could have.
But every man, cousin, may not be so fortunate."
"But, Melton," said Edward, "seeing my steady habits are so well
provided for, you must carry your logic and eloquence to some poor
fellow less favored." And thus the conference ended.
"What a good disinterested fellow Melton is!" said Edward, after he had
left.
"Yes, good, as the day is long," said Augusta, "but rather prosy, after
all. This tiresome temperance business! One never hears the end of it
nowadays. Temperance papers--temperance tracts--temperance
hotels--temperance this, that, and the other thing, even down to
temperance pocket handkerchiefs for little boys! Really, the world is
getting intemperately temperate."
"Ah, well! with the security you have offered, Augusta, I shall dread no
temptation."
Though there was nothing peculiar in these words, yet there was a
certain earnestness of tone that called the color into the face of
Augusta, and set her to sewing with uncommon assiduity. And thereupon
Edward proceeded with some remark about "guardian angels," together with
many other things of the kind, which, though they contain no more that
is new than a temperance lecture, always seem to have a peculiar
freshness to people in certain circumstances. In fact, before the hour
was at an end, Edward and Augusta had forgotten where they began, and
had wandered far into that land of anticipations and bright dreams which
surrounds the young and loving before they eat of the tree of
experience, and gain the fatal knowledge of good and evil.
But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let us throw in a little
background and perspective that will enable our readers to perceive more
readily the entire picture.
Edward Howard was a young man whose brilliant talents and captivating
manners had placed him first in the society in which he moved. Though
without property or weight of family connections, he had become a leader
in the circles where these appendages are most considered, and there
were none of their immunities and privileges that were not freely at his
disposal.
Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that lies within the sphere of
feminine attainment. She was an orphan, and accustomed from a very early
age to the free enjoyment and control of an independent property. This
circumstance, doubtless, added to the magic of her personal graces in
procuring for her that flattering deference which beauty and wealth
secure.
Her mental powers were naturally superior, although, from want of
motive, they had received no development, except such as would secure
success in society. Native good sense, with great strength of feeling
and independence of mind, had saved her from becoming heartless and
frivolous. She was better fitted to lead and to influence than to be
influenced or led. And hence, though not swayed by any habitual sense of
moral responsibility, the tone of her character seemed altogether more
elevated than the average of fashionable society.
General expectation had united the destiny of two persons who seemed
every way fitted for each other, and for once general expectation did
not err. A few months after the interview mentioned were witnessed the
festivities and congratulations of their brilliant and happy marriage.
Never did two young persons commence life under happier auspices. "What
an exact match!" "What a beautiful couple!" said all the gossips. "They
seem made for each other," said every one; and so thought the happy
lovers themselves.
Love, which with persons of strong character is always an earnest and
sobering principle, had made them thoughtful and considerate; and as
they looked forward to future life, and talked of the days before them,
their plans and ideas were as rational as any plans can be, when formed
entirely with reference to this life, without any regard to another.
For a while their absorbing attachment to each other tended to withdraw
them from the temptations and allurements of company; and many a long
winter evening passed delightfully in the elegant quietude of home, as
they read, and sang, and talked of the past, and dreamed of the future
in each other's society. But, contradictory as it may appear to the
theory of the sentimentalist, it is nevertheless a fact, that two
persons cannot always find sufficient excitement in talking to each
other merely; and this is especially true of those to whom high
excitement has been a necessary of life. After a while, the young
couple, though loving each other none the less, began to respond to the
many calls which invited them again into society, and the pride they
felt in each other added zest to the pleasures of their return.
As the gaze of admiration followed the graceful motions of the beautiful
wife, and the whispered tribute went round the circle whenever she
entered, Edward felt a pride beyond all that flattery, addressed to
himself, had ever excited; and Augusta, when told of the convivial
talents and powers of entertainment which distinguished her husband,
could not resist the temptation of urging him into society even oftener
than his own wishes would have led him.
Alas! neither of them knew the perils of constant excitement, nor
supposed that, in thus alienating themselves from the pure and simple
pleasures of home, they were risking their whole capital of happiness.
It is in indulging the first desire for extra stimulus that the first
and deepest danger to domestic peace lies. Let that stimulus be either
bodily or mental, its effects are alike to be dreaded.
The man or the woman to whom habitual excitement of any kind has become
essential has taken the first step towards ruin. In the case of a woman,
it leads to discontent, fretfulness, and dissatisfaction with the quiet
duties of domestic life; in the case of a man, it leads almost
invariably to animal stimulus, ruinous alike to the powers of body and
mind.
Augusta, fondly trusting to the virtue of her husband, saw no danger in
the constant round of engagements which were gradually drawing his
attention from the graver cares of business, from the pursuit of
self-improvement, and from the love of herself. Already there was in her
horizon the cloud "as big as a man's hand"--the precursor of future
darkness and tempest; but, too confident and buoyant, she saw it not.
It was not until the cares and duties of a mother began to confine her
at home, that she first felt, with a startling sensation of fear, that
there was an alteration in her husband, though even then the change was
so shadowy and indefinite that it could not be defined by words.
It was known by that quick, prophetic sense which reveals to the heart
of woman the first variation in the pulse of affection, though it be so
slight that no other touch can detect it.
Edward was still fond, affectionate, admiring; and when he tendered her
all the little attentions demanded by her situation, or caressed and
praised his beautiful son, she felt satisfied and happy. But when she
saw that, even without her, the convivial circle had its attractions,
and that he could leave her to join it, she sighed, she scarce knew why.
"Surely," she said, "I am not so selfish as to wish to rob him of
pleasure because I cannot enjoy it with him. But yet, once he told me
there was no pleasure where I was not. Alas! is it true, what I have so
often heard, that such feelings cannot always last?"
Poor Augusta! she knew not how deep reason she had to fear. She saw not
the temptations that surrounded her husband in the circles where to all
the stimulus of wit and intellect was often added the zest of _wine_,
used far too freely for safety.
Already had Edward become familiar with a degree of physical excitement
which touches the very verge of intoxication; yet, strong in
self-confidence, and deluded by the customs of society, he dreamed not
of danger. The traveller who has passed above the rapids of Niagara may
have noticed the spot where the first white sparkling ripple announces
the downward tendency of the waters. All here is brilliancy and beauty;
and as the waters ripple and dance in the sunbeam, they seem only as if
inspired by a spirit of new life, and not as hastening to a dreadful
fall. So the first approach to intemperance, that ruins both body and
soul, seems only like the buoyancy and exulting freshness of a new life,
and the unconscious voyager feels his bark undulating with a thrill of
delight, ignorant of the inexorable hurry, the tremendous sweep, with
which the laughing waters urge him on beyond the reach of hope or
recovery.
It was at this period in the life of Edward that one judicious and manly
friend, who would have had the courage to point out to him the danger
that every one else perceived, might have saved him. But among the
circle of his acquaintances there was none such. "_Let every man mind
his own business_" was their universal maxim. True, heads were gravely
shaken, and Mr. A. regretted to Mr. B. that so promising a young man
seemed about to ruin himself. But one was "_no relation_," of Edward's,
and the other "felt a delicacy in speaking on such a subject," and
therefore, according to a very ancient precedent, they "passed by on the
other side." Yet it was at Mr. A.'s sideboard, always sparkling with the
choicest wine, that he had felt the first excitement of extra stimulus;
it was at Mr. B.'s house that the convivial club began to hold their
meetings, which, after a time, found a more appropriate place in a
public hotel. It is thus that the sober, the regular, and the discreet,
whose constitution saves them from liabilities to excess, will accompany
the ardent and excitable to the very verge of danger, and then wonder at
their want of self-control.
It was a cold winter evening, and the wind whistled drearily around the
closed shutters of the parlor in which Augusta was sitting. Every thing
around her bore the marks of elegance and comfort.
Splendid books and engravings lay about in every direction. Vases of
rare and costly flowers exhaled perfume, and magnificent mirrors
multiplied every object. All spoke of luxury and repose, save the
anxious and sad countenance of its mistress.
It was late, and she had watched anxiously for her husband for many long
hours. She drew out her gold and diamond repeater, and looked at it. It
was long past midnight. She sighed as she remembered the pleasant
evenings they had passed together, as her eye fell on the books they had
read together, and on her piano and harp, now silent, and thought of all
he had said and looked in those days when each was all to the other.
She was aroused from this melancholy revery by a loud knocking at the
street door. She hastened to open it, but started back at the sight it
disclosed--her husband borne by four men.
"Dead! is he dead?" she screamed, in agony.
"No, ma'am," said one of the men, "but he might as well be dead as in
such a fix as this."
The whole truth, in all its degradation, flashed on the mind of Augusta.
Without a question or comment, she motioned to the sofa in the parlor,
and her husband was laid there. She locked the street door, and when the
last retreating footstep had died away, she turned to the sofa, and
stood gazing in fixed and almost stupefied silence on the face of her
senseless husband.
At once she realized the whole of her fearful lot. She saw before her
the blight of her own affections, the ruin of her helpless children, the
disgrace and misery of her husband. She looked around her in helpless
despair, for she well knew the power of the vice whose deadly seal was
set upon her husband. As one who is struggling and sinking in the waters
casts a last dizzy glance at the green sunny banks and distant trees
which seem sliding from his view, so did all the scenes of her happy
days pass in a moment before her, and she groaned aloud in bitterness of
spirit. "Great God! help me, help me," she prayed. "Save him--O, save my
husband."
Augusta was a woman of no common energy of spirit, and when the first
wild burst of anguish was over, she resolved not to be wanting to her
husband and children in a crisis so dreadful.
"When he awakes," she mentally exclaimed, "I will warn and implore; I
will pour out my whole soul to save him. My poor husband, you have been
misled--betrayed. But you are too good, too generous, too noble to be
sacrificed without a struggle."
It was late the next morning before the stupor in which Edward was
plunged began to pass off. He slowly opened his eyes, started up wildly,
gazed hurriedly around the room, till his eye met the fixed and
sorrowful gaze of his wife. The past instantly flashed upon him, and a
deep flush passed over his countenance. There was a dead, a solemn
silence, until Augusta, yielding to her agony, threw herself into his
arms, and wept.
"Then you do not hate me, Augusta?" said he, sorrowfully.
"Hate you--never! But, O Edward, Edward, what has beguiled you?"
"My wife--you once promised to be my guardian in virtue--such you are,
and will be. O Augusta! you have looked on what you shall never see
again--never--never--so help me God!" said he, looking up with solemn
earnestness.
And Augusta, as she gazed on the noble face, the ardent expression of
sincerity and remorse, could not doubt that her husband was saved. But
Edward's plan of reformation had one grand defect. It was merely
modification and retrenchment, and not _entire abandonment_. He could
not feel it necessary to cut himself off entirely from the scenes and
associations where temptation had met him. He considered not that, when
the temperate flow of the blood and the even balance of the nerves have
once been destroyed, there is, ever after, a double and fourfold
liability, which often makes a man the sport of the first untoward
chance.
He still contrived to stimulate sufficiently to prevent the return of a
calm and healthy state of the mind and body, and to make constant
self-control and watchfulness necessary.
It is a great mistake to call nothing intemperance but that degree of
physical excitement which completely overthrows the mental powers. There
is a state of nervous excitability, resulting from what is often called
moderate stimulation, which often long precedes this, and is, in regard
to it, like the premonitory warnings of the fatal cholera--an
unsuspected draught on the vital powers, from which, at any moment, they
may sink into irremediable collapse.
It is in this state, often, that the spirit of gambling or of wild
speculation is induced by the morbid cravings of an over-stimulated
system. Unsatisfied with the healthy and regular routine of business,
and the laws of gradual and solid prosperity, the excited and unsteady
imagination leads its subjects to daring risks, with the alternative of
unbounded gain on the one side, or of utter ruin on the other. And when,
as is too often the case, that ruin comes, unrestrained and desperate
intemperance is the wretched resort to allay the ravings of
disappointment and despair.
Such was the case with Edward. He had lost his interest in his regular
business, and he embarked the bulk of his property in a brilliant scheme
then in vogue; and when he found a crisis coming, threatening ruin and
beggary, he had recourse to the fatal stimulus, which, alas! he had
never wholly abandoned.
At this time he spent some months in a distant city, separated from his
wife and family, while the insidious power of temptation daily
increased, as he kept up, by artificial stimulus, the flagging vigor of
his mind and nervous system.
It came at last--the blow which shattered alike his brilliant dreams and
his real prosperity. The large fortune brought by his wife vanished in a
moment, so that scarcely a pittance remained in his hands. From the
distant city where he had been to superintend his schemes, he thus wrote
to his too confiding wife:--
"Augusta, all is over! expect no more from your husband--believe no more
of his promises--for he is lost to you and you to him. Augusta, our
property is gone; _your_ property, which I have blindly risked, is all
swallowed up. But is that the worst? No, no, Augusta; _I_ am lost--lost,
body and soul, and as irretrievably as the perishing riches I have
squandered. Once I had energy--health--nerve--resolution; but all are
gone: yes, yes, I have yielded--I do yield daily to what is at once my
tormentor and my temporary refuge from intolerable misery. You remember
the sad hour you first knew your husband was a drunkard. Your look on
that morning of misery--shall I ever forget it? Yet, blind and confiding
as you were, how soon did your ill-judged confidence in me return! Vain
hopes! I was even then past recovery--even then sealed over to blackness
of darkness forever.
"Alas! my wife, my peerless wife, why am I your husband? why the father
of such children as you have given me? Is there nothing in your
unequalled loveliness--nothing in the innocence of our helpless babes,
that is powerful enough to recall me? No, there is not.
"Augusta, you know not the dreadful gnawing, the intolerable agony of
this master passion. I walk the floor--I think of my own dear home, my
high hopes, my proud expectations, my children, my wife, my own immortal
soul. I feel that I am sacrificing all--feel it till I am withered with
agony; but the hour comes--the burning hour, and _all is in vain_. I
shall return to you no more, Augusta. All the little wreck I have saved
I send: you have friends, relatives--above all, you have an energy of
mind, a capacity of resolute action, beyond that of ordinary women, and
you shall never be bound--the living to the dead. True, you will suffer,
thus to burst the bonds that unite us; but be resolute, for you will
suffer more to watch from day to day the slow workings of death and ruin
in your husband. Would you stay with me, to see every vestige of what
you once loved passing away--to endure the caprice, the moroseness, the
delirious anger of one no longer master of himself? Would you make your
children victims and fellow-sufferers with you? No! dark and dreadful is
my path! I will walk it alone: no one shall go with me.
"In some peaceful retirement you may concentrate your strong feelings
upon your children, and bring them up to fill a place in your heart
which a worthless husband has abandoned. If I leave you now, you will
remember me as I have been--you will love me and weep for me when dead;
but if you stay with me, your love will be worn out; I shall become the
object of disgust and loathing. Therefore farewell, my wife--my first,
best love, farewell! with you I part with hope,--
'And with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost:
Evil, be thou my good.'
This is a wild strain, but fit for me: do not seek for me, do not write:
nothing can save me."
Thus abruptly began and ended the letter that conveyed to Augusta the
death doom of her hopes. There are moments of agony when the most
worldly heart is pressed upward to God, even as a weight will force
upward the reluctant water. Augusta had been a generous, a high-minded,
an affectionate woman, but she had lived entirely for this world. Her
chief good had been her husband and her children. These had been her
pride, her reliance, her dependence. Strong in her own resources, she
had never felt the need of looking to a higher power for assistance and
happiness. But when this letter fell from her trembling hand, her heart
died within her at its wild and reckless bitterness.
In her desperation she looked up to God. "What have I to live for now?"
was the first feeling of her heart.
But she repressed this inquiry of selfish agony, and besought almighty
assistance to nerve her weakness; and here first began that practical
acquaintance with the truths and hopes of religion which changed her
whole character.
The possibility of blind, confiding idolatry of any earthly object was
swept away by the fall of her husband, and with the full energy of a
decided and desolate spirit, she threw herself on the protection of an
almighty Helper. She followed her husband to the city whither he had
gone, found him, and vainly attempted to save.
There were the usual alternations of short-lived reformations, exciting
hopes only to be destroyed. There was the gradual sinking of the body,
the decay of moral feeling and principle--the slow but sure approach of
disgusting animalism, which marks the progress of the drunkard.
It was some years after that a small and partly ruinous tenement in the
outskirts of A. received a new family. The group consisted of four
children, whose wan and wistful countenances, and still, unchildlike
deportment, testified an early acquaintance with want and sorrow. There
was the mother, faded and care-worn, whose dark and melancholy eyes,
pale cheeks, and compressed lips told of years of anxiety and endurance.
There was the father, with haggard face, unsteady step, and that
callous, reckless air, that betrayed long familiarity with degradation
and crime. Who, that had seen Edward Howard in the morning and freshness
of his days, could have recognized him in this miserable husband and
father? or who, in this worn and woe-stricken woman, would have known
the beautiful, brilliant, and accomplished Augusta? Yet such changes are
not fancy, as many a bitter and broken heart can testify.
Augusta had followed her guilty husband through many a change and many a
weary wandering. All hope of reformation had gradually faded away. Her
own eyes had seen, her ears had heard, all those disgusting details, too
revolting to be portrayed; for in drunkenness there is no royal road--no
salvo for greatness of mind, refinement of taste, or tenderness of
feeling. All alike are merged in the corruption of a moral death.