startled to hear the fragments of classical lore, or wild bursts of
half-remembered poetry, mixing strangely with the imbecile merriment of
intoxication. But when he stopped to gaze, there was no further mark on
his face or in his eye by which he could be distinguished from the
loathsome and lowest drunkard.
Augusta had come with her husband to a city where they were wholly
unknown, that she might at least escape the degradation of their lot in
the presence of those who had known them in better days. The long and
dreadful struggle that annihilated the hopes of this life had raised her
feelings to rest upon the next, and the habit of communion with God,
induced by sorrows which nothing else could console, had given a tender
dignity to her character such as nothing else could bestow.
It is true, she deeply loved her children; but it was with a holy,
chastened love, such as inspired the sentiment once breathed by Him "who
was made perfect through sufferings."
"For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they also may be sanctified."
Poverty, deep poverty, had followed their steps, but yet she had not
fainted. Talents which in her happier days had been nourished merely as
luxuries, were now stretched to the utmost to furnish a support; while
from the resources of her own reading she drew that which laid the
foundation for early mental culture in her children.
Augusta had been here but a few weeks before her footsteps were traced
by her only brother, who had lately discovered her situation, and urged
her to forsake her unworthy husband and find refuge with him.
"Augusta, my sister, I have found you!" he exclaimed, as he suddenly
entered one day, while she was busied with the work of her family.
"Henry, my dear brother!" There was a momentary illumination of
countenance accompanying these words, which soon faded into a mournful
quietness, as she cast her eyes around on the scanty accommodations and
mean apartment.
"I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you are sinking--dragged down
by a vain sense of duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear it any
longer; I have come to take you away."
Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly out of the window. Her
features settled in thought. Their expression gradually deepened from
their usual tone of mild, resigned sorrow to one of keen anguish.
"Henry," said she, turning towards him, "never was mortal woman so
blessed in another as I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who knew
him in those days that did not admire and love him? They tempted and
insnared him; and even I urged him into the path of danger. He fell, and
there was none to help. I urged reformation, and he again and again
promised, resolved, and began. But again they tempted him--even his very
best friends; yes, and that, too, when they knew his danger. They led
him on as far as it was safe for _them_ to go, and when the sweep of his
more excitable temperament took him past the point of safety and
decency, they stood by, and coolly wondered and lamented. How often was
he led on by such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and then
driven to desperation by the cold look, averted faces, and cruel sneers
of those whose medium temperament and cooler blood saved them from the
snares which they saw were enslaving him. What if _I_ had forsaken him
_then_? What account should I have rendered to God? Every time a friend
has been alienated by his comrades, it has seemed to seal him with
another seal. I am his wife--and mine will be _the last_. Henry, when I
leave him, I _know_ his eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a
little longer--a little longer; the hour, I see, must come. I know my
duty to my children forbids me to keep them here; take them--they are my
last earthly comforts, Henry--but you must take them away. It may be--O
God--perhaps it _must be_, that I shall soon follow; but not till I have
tried _once more_. What is this present life to one who has suffered as
I have? Nothing. But eternity! O Henry! eternity--how can I abandon him
to _everlasting_ despair! Under the breaking of my heart I have borne
up. I have borne up under _all_ that can try a woman; but _this_
thought----" She stopped, and seemed struggling with herself; but at
last, borne down by a tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands;
the tears streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with
convulsive sobs.
Her brother wept with her; nor dared he again to touch the point so
solemnly guarded. The next day Augusta parted from her children, hoping
something from feelings that, possibly, might be stirred by their
absence in the bosom of their father.
It was about a week after this that Augusta one evening presented
herself at the door of a rich Mr. L., whose princely mansion was one of
the ornaments of the city of A. It was not till she reached the
sumptuous drawing room that she recognized in Mr. L. one whom she and
her husband had frequently met in the gay circles of their early life.
Altered as she was, Mr. L. did not recognize her, but compassionately
handed her a chair, and requested her to wait the return of his lady,
who was out; and then turning, he resumed his conversation with another
gentleman.
"Now, Dallas," said he, "you are altogether excessive and intemperate in
this matter. Society is not to be reformed by every man directing his
efforts towards his neighbor, but by every man taking care of himself.
It is you and I, my dear sir, who must begin with ourselves, and every
other man must do the same; and then society will be effectually
reformed. Now this modern way, by which every man considers it his duty
to attend to the spiritual matters of his next-door neighbor, is taking
the business at the wrong end altogether. It makes a vast deal of
appearance, but it does very little good."
"But suppose your neighbor feels no disposition to attend to his own
improvement--what then?"
"Why, then it is his own concern, and not mine. What my Maker requires
is, that I do _my_ duty, and not fret about my neighbor's."
"But, my friend, that is the very question. What is the duty your Maker
requires? Does it not include some regard to your neighbor, some care
and thought for his interest and improvement?"
"Well, well, I do that by setting a good example. I do not mean by
example what you do--that is, that I am to stop drinking wine because it
may lead him to drink brandy, any more than that I must stop eating
because he may eat too much and become a dyspeptic--but that I am to use
my wine, and every thing else, temperately and decently, and thus set
him a good example."
The conversation was here interrupted by the return of Mrs. L. It
recalled, in all its freshness, to the mind of Augusta the days when
both she and her husband had thus spoken and thought.
Ah, how did these sentiments appear to her now--lonely, helpless,
forlorn--the wife of a ruined husband, the mother of more than orphan
children! How different from what they seemed, when, secure in ease, in
wealth, in gratified affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the common
phraseology, "Why must people concern themselves so much in their
neighbors' affairs? Let every man mind his own business."
Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L. the fine sewing for which she
came, and left the room.
"Ellen," said Mr. L. to his wife; "that poor woman must be in trouble of
some kind or other. You must go some time, and see if any thing can be
done for her."
"How singular!" said Mrs. L.; "she reminds me all the time of Augusta
Howard. You remember her, my dear?"
"Yes, poor thing! and her husband too. That was a shocking affair of
Edward Howard's. I hear that he became an intemperate, worthless fellow.
Who could have thought it!"
"But you recollect, my dear," said Mrs. L., "I predicted it six months
before it was talked of. You remember, at the wine party which you gave
after Mary's wedding, he was so excited that he was hardly decent. I
mentioned then that he was getting into dangerous ways. But he was such
an excitable creature, that two or three glasses would put him quite
beside himself. And there is George Eldon, who takes off his ten or
twelve glasses, and no one suspects it."
"Well, it was a great pity," replied Mr. L.; "Howard was worth a dozen
George Eldons."
"Do you suppose," said Dallas, who had listened thus far in silence,
"that if he had moved in a circle where it was the universal custom to
_banish all stimulating drinks_, he would thus have fallen?"
"I cannot say," said Mr. L.; "perhaps not."
Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and leisure, and of an ardent and
enthusiastic temperament. Whatever engaged him absorbed his whole soul;
and of late years, his mind had become deeply engaged in schemes of
philanthropy for the improvement of his fellow-men. He had, in his
benevolent ministrations, often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was
deeply interested in the pale and patient wife and mother. He made
acquaintance with her through the aid of her children, and, in one way
and another, learned particulars of their history that awakened the
deepest interest and concern. None but a mind as sanguine as his would
have dreamed of attempting to remedy such hopeless misery by the
reformation of him who was its cause. But such a plan had actually
occurred to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs. L. recalled the idea, and
he soon found that his intended _protege_ was the very Edward Howard
whose early history was thus disclosed. He learned all the minutiae from
these his early associates without disclosing his aim, and left them
still more resolved upon his benevolent plan.
He watched his opportunity when Edward was free from the influence of
stimulus, and it was just after the loss of his children had called
forth some remains of his better nature. Gradually and kindly he tried
to touch the springs of his mind, and awaken some of its buried
sensibilities.
"It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me," said Edward, when, one
day, with the strong eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the
motives for attempting reformation; "you might as well attempt to
reclaim the lost in hell. Do you think," he continued, in a wild,
determined manner--"do you think I do not know all you can tell me? I
have it all by heart, sir; no one can preach such discourses as I can on
this subject: I know all--believe all--as the devils believe and
tremble."
"Ay, but," said Dallas, "to you _there is hope_; you _are not_ to ruin
yourself forever."
"And who the devil are you, to speak to me in this way?" said Edward,
looking up from his sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not of
hope.
"God's messenger to you, Edward Howard," said Dallas, fixing his keen
eye upon him solemnly; "to you, Edward Howard, who have thrown away
talents, hope, and health--who have blasted the heart of your wife, and
beggared your suffering children. To you I am the messenger of your
God--by me he offers health, and hope, and self-respect, and the regard
of your fellow-men. You may heal the broken heart of your wife, and give
back a father to your helpless children. Think of it, Howard: what if it
were possible? Only suppose it. What would it be again to feel yourself
a man, beloved and respected as you once were, with a happy home, a
cheerful wife, and smiling little ones? Think how you could repay your
poor wife for all her tears! What hinders you from gaining all this?"
"Just what hindered the rich man in hell--'_between us there is a great
gulf fixed_;' it lies between me and all that is good; my wife, my
children, my hope of heaven, are all on the other side."
"Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard, what _would you give_ to be a
temperate man?"
"What would I give?" said Howard. He thought for a moment, and burst
into tears.
"Ah, I see how it is," said Dallas; "you need a friend, and God has sent
you one."
"What _can_ you do for me, Mr. Dallas?" said Edward, in a tone of wonder
at the confidence of his assurances.
"I will tell you what I can do: I can take you to my house, and give you
a room, and watch over you until the strongest temptations are past--I
can give you business again. I can do _all_ for you that needs to be
done, if you will give yourself to my care."
"O God of mercy!" exclaimed the unhappy man, "is there hope for me? I
cannot believe it possible; but take me where you choose--I will follow
and obey."
A few hours witnessed the transfer of the lost husband to one of the
retired apartments in the elegant mansion of Dallas, where he found his
anxious and grateful wife still stationed as his watchful guardian.
Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful employment, simple food,
and pure water were connected with a personal supervision by Dallas,
which, while gently and politely sustained, at first amounted to actual
imprisonment.
For a time the reaction from the sudden suspension of habitual stimulus
was dreadful, and even with tears did the unhappy man entreat to be
permitted to abandon the undertaking. But the resolute steadiness of
Dallas and the tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is true that
he might be said to be saved "so as by fire;" for a fever, and a long
and fierce delirium, wasted him almost to the borders of the grave.
But, at length, the struggle between life and death was over, and though
it left him stretched on the bed of sickness, emaciated and weak, yet he
was restored to his right mind, and was conscious of returning health.
Let any one who has laid a friend in the grave, and known what it is to
have the heart fail with longing for them day by day, imagine the dreamy
and unreal joy of Augusta when she began again to see in Edward the
husband so long lost to her. It was as if the grave had given back the
dead.
"Augusta!" said he, faintly, as, after a long and quiet sleep, he awoke
free from delirium. She bent over him. "Augusta, I am redeemed--I am
saved--I feel in myself that I am made whole."
The high heart of Augusta melted at these words. She trembled and wept.
Her husband wept also, and after a pause he continued,--
"It is more than being restored to this life--I feel that it is the
beginning of eternal life. It is the Savior who sought me out, and I
know that he is able to keep me from falling."
But we will draw a veil over a scene which words have little power to
paint.
"Pray, Dallas," said Mr. L., one day, "who is that fine-looking young
man whom I met in your office this morning? I thought his face seemed
familiar."
"It is a Mr. Howard--a young lawyer whom I have lately taken into
business with me."
"Strange! Impossible!" said Mr. L. "Surely this cannot be the Howard
that I once knew."
"I believe he is," said Mr. Dallas.
"Why, I thought he was gone--dead and done over, long ago, with
intemperance."
"He was so; few have ever sunk lower; but he now promises even to outdo
all that was hoped of him."
"Strange! Why, Dallas, what did bring about this change?"
"I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came about to you, Mr. L., as
there undoubtedly was a great deal of 'interference with other men's
matters' in the business. In short, the young man fell in the way of one
of those meddlesome fellows, who go prowling about, distributing tracts,
forming temperance societies, and all that sort of stuff."
"Come, come, Dallas," said Mr. L., smiling, "I must hear the story, for
all that."
"First call with me at this house," said Dallas, stopping before the
door of a neat little mansion. They were soon in the parlor. The first
sight that met their eyes was Edward Howard, who, with a cheek glowing
with exercise, was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while Augusta was
watching his motions, her face radiant with smiles.
"Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L., an old acquaintance, I believe."
There was a moment of mutual embarrassment and surprise, soon dispelled,
however, by the frank cordiality of Edward. Mr. L. sat down, but could
scarce withdraw his eyes from the countenance of Augusta, in whose
eloquent face he recognized a beauty of a higher cast than even in her
earlier days.
He glanced about the apartment. It was simply but tastefully furnished,
and wore an air of retired, domestic comfort. There were books,
engravings, and musical instruments. Above all, there were four happy,
healthy-looking children, pursuing studies or sports at the farther end
of the room.
After a short call they regained the street.
"Dallas, you are a happy man," said Mr. L.; "that family will be a mine
of jewels to you."
He was right. Every soul saved from pollution and ruin is a jewel to him
that reclaims it, whose lustre only eternity can disclose; and therefore
it is written, "They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the
firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars
forever and ever."
COUSIN WILLIAM.
In a stately red house, in one of the villages of New England, lived the
heroine of our story. She had every advantage of rank and wealth, for
her father was a deacon of the church, and owned sheep, and oxen, and
exceeding much substance. There was an appearance of respectability and
opulence about all the demesnes. The house stood almost concealed amid a
forest of apple trees, in spring blushing with blossoms, and in autumn
golden with fruit. And near by might be seen the garden, surrounded by a
red picket fence, enclosing all sorts of magnificence. There, in autumn,
might be seen abundant squash vines, which seemed puzzled for room where
to bestow themselves; and bright golden squashes, and full-orbed yellow
pumpkins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun when he has just had
his face washed in a shower, and is sinking soberly to bed. There were
superannuated seed cucumbers, enjoying the pleasures of a contemplative
old age; and Indian corn, nicely done up in green silk, with a specimen
tassel hanging at the end of each ear. The beams of the summer sun
darted through rows of crimson currants, abounding on bushes by the
fence, while a sulky black currant bush sat scowling in one corner, a
sort of garden curiosity.
But time would fail us were we to enumerate all the wealth of Deacon
Israel Taylor. He himself belonged to that necessary class of beings,
who, though remarkable for nothing at all, are very useful in filling up
the links of society. Far otherwise was his sister-in-law, Mrs. Abigail
Evetts, who, on the demise of the deacon's wife, had assumed the reins
of government in the household.
This lady was of the same opinion that has animated many illustrious
philosophers, namely, that the affairs of this world need a great deal
of seeing to in order to have them go on prosperously; and although she
did not, like them, engage in the supervision of the universe, she made
amends by unremitting diligence in the department under her care. In her
mind there was an evident necessity that every one should be up and
doing: Monday, because it was washing day; Tuesday, because it was
ironing day; Wednesday, because it was baking day; Thursday, because
to-morrow was Friday; and so on to the end of the week. Then she had the
care of reminding all in the house of every thing each was to do from
week's end to week's end; and she was so faithful in this respect, that
scarcely an original act of volition took place in the family. The poor
deacon was reminded when he went out and when he came in, when he sat
down and when he rose up, so that an act of omission could only have
been committed through sheer malice prepense.
But the supervision of a whole family of children afforded to a lady of
her active turn of mind more abundant matter of exertion. To see that
their faces were washed, their clothes mended, and their catechism
learned; to see that they did not pick the flowers, nor throw stones at
the chickens, nor sophisticate the great house dog, was an accumulation
of care that devolved almost entirely on Mrs. Abigail, so that, by her
own account, she lived and throve by a perpetual miracle.
The eldest of her charge, at the time this story begins, was a girl just
arrived at young ladyhood, and her name was Mary. Now we know that
people very seldom have stories written about them who have not
sylph-like forms, and glorious eyes, or, at least, "a certain
inexpressible charm diffused over their whole person." But stories have
of late so much abounded that they actually seem to have used up all the
eyes, hair, teeth, lips, and forms necessary for a heroine, so that no
one can now pretend to find an original collection wherewith to set one
forth. These things considered, I regard it as fortunate that my heroine
was not a beauty. She looked neither like a sylph, nor an oread, nor a
fairy; she had neither _l'air distingue_ nor _l'air magnifique_, but
bore a great resemblance to a real mortal girl, such as you might pass a
dozen of without any particular comment--one of those appearances,
which, though common as water, may, like that, be colored any way by the
associations you connect with it. Accordingly, a faultless taste in
dress, a perfect ease and gayety of manner, a constant flow of kindly
feeling, seemed in her case to produce all the effect of beauty. Her
manners had just dignity enough to repel impertinence without destroying
the careless freedom and sprightliness in which she commonly indulged.
No person had a merrier run of stories, songs, and village traditions,
and all those odds and ends of character which form the materials for
animated conversation. She had read, too, every thing she could find:
Rollin's History, and Scott's Family Bible, that stood in the glass
bookcase in the best room, and an odd volume of Shakspeare, and now and
then one of Scott's novels, borrowed from a somewhat literary family in
the neighborhood. She also kept an album to write her thoughts in, and
was in a constant habit of cutting out all the pretty poetry from the
corners of the newspapers, besides drying forget-me-nots and rosebuds,
in memory of different particular friends, with a number of other little
sentimental practices to which young ladies of sixteen and thereabout
are addicted. She was also endowed with great constructiveness;
so that, in these days of ladies' fairs, there was nothing from
bellows-needlebooks down to web-footed pincushions to which she could
not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly _was_ extraordinary, (we think
too little is made of this in the accomplishments of heroines;) her
stitching was like rows of pearls, and her cross-stitching was
fairy-like; and for sewing over and over, as the village schoolma'am
hath it, she had not her equal. And what shall we say of her pies and
puddings? They would have converted the most reprobate old bachelor in
the world. And then her sweeping and dusting! "Many daughters have done
virtuously, but thou excellest them all!"
And now, what do you suppose is coming next? Why, a young gentleman, of
course; for about this time comes to settle in the village, and take
charge of the academy, a certain William Barton. Now, if you wish to
know more particularly who he was, we only wish we could refer you to
Mrs. Abigail, who was most accomplished in genealogies and old wifes'
fables, and she would have told you that "her gran'ther, Ike Evetts,
married a wife who was second cousin to Peter Scranton, who was great
uncle to Polly Mosely, whose daughter Mary married William Barton's
father, just about the time old 'Squire Peter's house was burned down."
And then would follow an account of the domestic history of all branches
of the family since they came over from England. Be that as it may, it
is certain that Mrs. Abigail denominated him cousin, and that he came to
the deacon's to board; and he had not been there more than a week, and
made sundry observations on Miss Mary, before he determined to call her
cousin too, which he accomplished in the most natural way in the world.