The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

"What's the use of my doing it, brother?" she asked, when he first alluded to it. "His not drinking does no harm to any one."

"If it don't, it makes him appear very singular. No matter who is here—no matter on what occasion, he must adhere to his foolish resolution. People will begin to think, after awhile, that he's some reformed drunkard, and is afraid to taste a drop of any kind of liquor."

"How can you talk so, George?" Clara said, with a half-offended air.

"So it will appear, Clara; and you can't help it, unless you laugh him out of his folly."

"I don't wish to say anything to him about it."

"You're afraid."

"No, I am not, George."

"Yes, you are."

"What am I afraid of?"

"Why, you're afraid that you won't succeed."

"Indeed, then, and I am not. A mere notion like that I could easily prevail on him to give up. I should be sorry, indeed, if I had not that much influence over him."

"You'll find it a pretty hard notion to beat out of him, I can tell you. I've seen half a dozen young men try for an hour by all kinds of means to induce him to taste wine; but it was no use. He was immovable."

"I don't care;—he couldn't refuse me, if I set myself about it."

"He could, and he would, Clara."

"I don't believe a word of it."

"Try him, then."

"I don't see any use in it. Let him enjoy his total-abstinence! if he wishes to."

"I knew you were afraid."

"Indeed, I am not, then."

"Yes, you are."

"It's no such thing."

"Try him, then."

"I will, then, since it's come to that."

"He'll be too much for you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I'll manage him."

"How?"

"Why, I'll insist on his taking a glass of that delightful champaign with me, which you sent home yesterday."

"Suppose he declines?"

"I won't take his refusal. He shall take a glass with me."

"We'll see, little sis'. I'll bet on Haley."—And so saying, the young man turned away laughing at the success of his scheme.

That evening, towards nine o'clock, as Haley sat conversing with

Clara, a servant entered the room as usual with bottles and glasses.

George Manley was promptly on his feet, to cut the cork and "pop"

the champaign, which he did, while the servant stood just before

Clara and her lover.

"You must take a glass of this fine champaign with me, Mr. Haley," the young tempter said, turning upon him a most winning smile.

"Indeed, Clara—"

"Not a word now. I shall take no refusal."

"I must be—"

"Pour him out a glass, George."

And George filled two glasses, one of which Clara lifted, with the sparkling liquor at the height of its effervescence.

"There's the other; take it quick, before it dies," she said, holding her own glass near her lips.

"You must excuse me, Clara. I do not drink wine," Mr. Haley said, as soon as he was permitted to speak, in a tone and with a manner that settled the question at once.

"Indeed, it is too bad, Mr. Haley!" Clara responded, with a half-offended air, putting her untasted glass of wine back upon the waiter,—"to deny me so trifling a request. I must say, that your refusal is very ungallant. Whoever heard of a gentleman declining to take wine with a lady?"

"There certainly is an exception to the rule to-night, Clara," the young man said. "Still, I can assure you, that nothing ungallant was meant. But that you know to be out of the question. I could not be rude to any lady, much less to you."

"O, as to that, it's easy to make fine speeches—but acts, you know, speak louder than words"—Clara said, half-laughing—half-serious.

The servant had, by this time, passed on with the untasted wine; and, of course, no further effort could be made towards driving the young man from his position. His positive refusal to drink, however, under the circumstances, very naturally disappointed Clara. He observed the sudden revulsion of feeling that took place in her mind, and it pained him very much.

As for her, she felt herself positively offended. She had set her heart upon proving to her brother her power over Haley, but had signally failed in the effort. He had proved to her immovable in his singular position.

From that time, for many weeks, there was a coldness between him and Clara. She did not receive him with her accustomed cordiality; but seemed both hurt and offended. To take a simple glass of champaign with her was so small a request, involving, as she reasoned, no violation of principle, that for him to refuse to do so, under all the circumstances, was almost unpardonable.

Affection, however, at last triumphed over wounded pride, but not until he had begun, seriously, to debate the question of proposing to her a dissolution of the contract existing between them.

Everything again went on smoothly enough, for there was no further effort on the part of Clara to drive her lover from his resolution. But she still entertained the idea of doing so—and still resolved that she would conquer him.

At last the wedding-day was set, and both looked forward to its approach with feelings of pure delight. Their friends, without an exception, approved the match; and well they might, for he was a man of known integrity, fine intellect, and cultivated tastes; and she a young woman in every way fitted to unite with him in marriage bonds.

Finally came the long anticipated evening. Never before was there assembled in the old mansion of Mr. Manley a happier company than that which had gathered to witness the marriage of his daughter, whose young heart trembled in the fulness of its delight, as she uttered the sealing words of her union with one who possessed all her heart.

"May kind heaven bless you, my child!" murmured the mother, as she pressed her lips to those of her happy child.

"And make your life glide on as peacefully as a quiet stream," added the father, kissing her in turn, scarcely refraining, as he did so, from taking her in his arms and folding her to his bosom.

Then came crowding upon her the sincere congratulations of friends. O, how happy she felt Joy seemed to have reached a climax. The cup was so full, that a drop more would have overflowed the brim.

A few minutes sufficed to restore again the order that had reigned through the rooms, and the servants appeared with the bride's cake. All eyes were upon the happy couple.

"You won't refuse me now, James?" the bride said, in a low tone; but with an appealing look, as she reached out her hand and lifted a glass of wine.

There was a hesitation in the manner of Haley, and Clara saw it. She knew that all eyes were upon them, and she knew that all had observed her challenge. Her pride was roused, and she could not bear the thought of being refused her first request after marriage.

"Take it, James, for my sake, even if you only place it to your lips without tasting it," she said, in a low, hurried whisper.

The young husband could not stand this. He took the glass, while the heart of Clara bounded with an exulting throb. Of course, having gone thus far, he had to go through the form of drinking with her. In doing so, he sipped but a few drops. These thrilled on the nerve of taste with a sensation of exquisite pleasure. Involuntarily he placed the glass to his lips again, and took a slight draught.

Then a sudden chill passed through his frame as consciousness returned, and he would fain have dashed the glass from him as a poisoning serpent that was preparing to sting him, but for the company that crowded the rooms. From this state he was aroused by the sweet voice of his young wife, saying, in happy tones—

"So it has not poisoned you, James."

He smiled an answer, but did not speak. The peculiar expression of that smile, Clara remembered for many years afterwards.

"Come! you must empty your glass with me," she said, in a moment after. "See! you have scarcely tasted it yet. Now—"

And she raised her glass, and he did the same. When he withdrew his own from his lips, it was empty.

"Bravo!"—exclaimed Clara, in a low, triumphant tone.

"Now, isn't that delightful wine?"

"Yes, very."

"Did you ever taste wine before, James?" the bride laughingly said—

"O, yes, many a time. But none so exquisitely flavoured as this."

"Long abstinence has sweetened it to your taste."

"No doubt."

"Clara has been too much for you to-night, Haley," George Manley said, coming up at this moment, and laughing in great glee.

"He couldn't refuse me on such an occasion"—the bride gaily responded. "I set my heart on making him drink wine with me on our wedding-night, and I have succeeded."

"Are you sure he hasn't poured it slyly upon the floor?"

"O, yes! I saw him take every drop. And what is more; he smacked his lips, and said it was exquisitely flavoured."

"Here comes the servant again," George said, at this moment. "Come, James! let me fill your glass again. You must drink with me to-night. You've never given me that pleasure yet. Come!—As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." Thus importuned, Haley held up his glass which George Manley filled to the brim.

"Health and happiness!" the young man said, bowing.

Haley bowed in return, placed the glass to his lips, and took its contents at a draught.

"Bravely done! Why, it seems to go down quite naturally. You were not always a total-abstinence man?"

"No, I was not."—While a slight shadow flitted over his face.

"Welcome back again, then, to a truly social, and convivial spirit!

After this, don't let me ever see you refuse a generous glass."

"What! An empty wine-glass in the hand of young Mr. Incorrigible!

Upon my word!" ejaculated old Mr. Manley, coming up at this moment.

"O, yes, pa! I've conquered him to-night! He couldn't refuse to take a glass of wine with me on this occasion!" the daughter said, in great glee.

"He must take one with me, too, then."

"You must excuse me, indeed, sir," Haley replied—rallying himself, and bracing up into firmness his broken and still wavering resolutions.

"Indeed, then, and I won't."

"O, no. Don't excuse him at all, pa! He drank with me, and then with brother, and now to refuse to drink with you would be a downright shame."

"He has taken a glass with George, too, has he? And now wants to be excused when I ask him. Upon my word! Here, George, tell the servant to come over this way."

The servant came, of course, in a moment or two, with the wine.

"Fill up his glass, George," the father said.

Haley's glass was, of course, filled again.

"Now, my boy!—Here's a health to my children! May this night's happiness be but as a drop to the ocean of delight in reserve for them." Drinking.

"And here's to our father! May his children never love him less than they do now." Drinking in turn.

"Thank you, my boy!"

"And thank you in return, for your kind wishes."

"That wine didn't seem to taste unpleasantly, James?"

"O, no, sir. It is rich and generous."

"How long is it since you tasted wine?"

"About three years."

"Are you not fond of it?"

"O, yes. I like a good glass of wine."

"Then what in the world has made you act so singularly about it?"

"A mere whim of mine, I suppose you will call it. And perhaps it was. I thought I was just as well without it."

"Nonsense! Don't let me ever again hear of this foolishness."

And then the old man mingled with the happy company.

"Come, James, you must drink with me, too," the mother said, a little while afterward.

Haley did not seem unwilling, but turned off a glass of wine with an air of real pleasure.

"You must drink with me, too," went through the room. Every little while some one, with whom the young man had on former occasions refused to drink, finding out that he had been driven from his cold-water resolutions, insisted upon taking a glass with him. Such being the case, it is not to be wondered at that a remark like this should be made before the passage of an hour.

"See! As I live, Haley's getting lively!"

"I think that 'rich and generous wine' is beginning to brighten you up a little," Mr. Manley said, about this time, slapping his son-in-law familiarly upon the shoulder?

"I feel very happy, sir," was Haley's reply.

"That's right. This is a happy occasion."

"I never was so happy in my life! I hardly know what to do with myself. Come! Won't you take some wine with me. I drank with you a little while ago."

"Certainly! Certainly! My boy! Or, perhaps you would try a little brandy."

"No objection," said the young man. And then the two went to the side-board, and each took a stiff glass of brandy.

"That's capital! It makes me feel good!" ejaculated Haley, as he set his empty glass down.

Cotillions were now formed, and the bride and groom took the floor in the first set. Clara felt very proud of her husband as she leaned upon his arm, waiting for the music to begin, and glanced around upon her maiden companions with a look of triumph. But she soon had cause to abate her exultation, for when the music struck up, and the dancers commenced their intricate movements, she found that her husband blundered so as to throw all into confusion. The reason of this instantly flashed upon her mind, for she knew him to be a correct and graceful dancer. He was too much intoxicated to dance! Her woman's pride caused her to make the effort to guide him through the figures. But it was of no use. The second attempt failed signally by his breaking the figures, and reeling with a loud, drunken laugh, through and through, and round and round the astonished group of dancers, thrown thus suddenly into confusion.

Poor Clara, overwhelmed with mortification, retired to a seat, while her husband continued his antics, ending them finally with an Indian whoop, such as may often be heard late at night in the streets, from a company of drunken revellers,—when he sought her out, and came and took a seat by her side.

"Aint you happy to-night, Clara! Aint you, old girl!" he said, in a loud voice, striking her with his open hand upon the shoulder. "I'm so happy that I feel just ready to jump out of my skin! Whoop!—Now see how beautifully I can cut a pigeon's-wing."

And he sprang from his seat, and commenced describing the elegant figure he had named, with industrious energy, much to the amusement of one portion of the company, but to the painful mortification of another. A circle was soon formed around him, to witness his graceful movements, which strongly reminded those present who had witnessed the performances, of a corn-field negro's Juba, or the double-shuffle.

"Come," old Mr. Manley said, interrupting the young man in his evolutions, by laying his hand upon his arm.

"Come! I want you a moment."

"Hel-lel-lel-lo, o-o, there! What's wanting? ha!" he said, pausing, and then staggering forwards against Mr Manley. "Who are you, sir?"

"For shame, sir!" the old man replied in a stern voice. "Come with me, I wish to speak to you."

"Speak here, then, will you? I've no se-se-secrets. I'm open and above board! Jim Haley's the boy that knows what he's about! Who-o-o-oop! Clear the track there!"

And starting away from the old man, he ran two or three paces, and then sprang clear over the head of a young lady, frightening her almost out of her wits.

"There! Who'll match me that? Jim Haley's the boy what's hard to beat! Whoo-oo-oop, hurrah! But where's Clara? Where's my dear little wifie? Ah! there—No, that isn't her, neither. Wh-wh-where is the little jade?"

The whole of this passed in a few moments, with all the drunken gestures required to give it the fullest effect.

Poor Clara, at first mortified, when she saw what a perfect madman her husband had become, was so shocked that her feelings overcame her, and she was carried fainting from the room. O, how bitter was her momentary repentance of her blind folly, ere her bewildered senses forsook her.

As for Haley, he grew worse and worse, until the brandy which he continued to pour down, had completely stupified him, when he was carried off to bed in a state of drunken insensibility; after which, the company retired in oppressive and embarrassed silence.

Sad and lonely was the bridal chamber that night, and the couch of the young bride was wet with bitter, but unavailing tears.

On the next morning, those who first entered the room where Haley had slept, found it empty. Towards the middle of the day, a letter was left for Clara by an unknown hand. It ran thus:

"DEAR CLARA—For you are still dear to me, although you have robbed me of happiness for ever, and crushed your own hopes with mine. For years before I came to this place, I had been a slave to intoxication—a slave held in a fearful bondage. At last, I resolved to break loose from my thraldom. One vigorous effort, and I was free. There yet remained to me a small remnant of a wrecked fortune. With this I abandoned my early home, and fixed my residence here, determined once more to be a man. Temptations beset me on every hand; but while I touched not, tasted not, handled not, I knew that I was safe. But alas for the hour when you became my tempter! O, that the remembrance of it could be blotted from my memory for ever! When, for your sake, I raised that fatal glass to my lips, and the single drop of wine that touched them thrilled wildly through every nerve, I felt that I was lost. Horrible were my sensations, but your tempting voice lured me to sip the scarcely tasted poison; I did so, and my resolution was gone! All that occurred after that is only dimly written on my memory. But I was a madman. That I can realize. When drunk, I have always acted the madman. And now we part for ever! I am a proud man, and cannot remain in the scene of my disgrace. My property I leave for you, and go I know not, and care not, whither—perhaps to die, unlamented, and unknown, and sink into a drunkard's grave. Farewell!"

This letter bore neither name nor date. But they were not needed.

Five years from that sorrowful morning Clara sat by a window in her father's house, near the close of day, looking dreamily up into the serene and cloudless sky. Her face was pale, and had a look of hopeless suffering. Five years!—It seemed as if twenty must have passed over her head, each burdening her with a heavy weight of affliction. O, what a wreck did she present! Five years of such a life! Who can tell their history? She was alone; and sat with her head upon her hand, and her eyes fixed, as if upon some object. But, evidently, no image touched the nerve of vision. Presently her lips moved, and a few mournful words were uttered aloud, almost involuntarily.

"O, that I knew where he was! O, that I could but find him, if alive!"

A slight noise startled her, and she turned quickly. Was it a vision? Or did her long-lost husband stand before her, the shadow of what he had been?

"Clara! Dear Clara!"

In a moment she was clinging to him with a trembling, eager, convulsive grasp. Tenderly did he fold her in his arms, and press his lips to hers fervently.

"Clara! Dear Clara!"

"My own dear husband!" was all she could utter, as she sank like a helpless child on his bosom.

For four years from the night of his wedding, Haley had been a common drunkard, with no power over himself. On the brink of the grave, he was rescued, signed a pledge of total abstinence, and set himself eagerly to work to elevate his condition. One year had sufficed to efface many sad tokens of his degradation, but time could not restore the freshness to his cheek, nor the light to his eye. Then he returned and sought his bride, who still mourned him with an inconsolable grief. A few months produced a happy change in both. But they cannot look back. Over the past they throw a veil,—the future is theirs, and it is growing brighter and brighter. May its clear sky never be darkened!

THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

"Is there a good fire in the little spare room Jane?" said Mr. Wade, a plain country farmer, coming into the kitchen where his good wife was busy preparing for supper.

"Oh, yes, I've made the room as comfortable as can be," replied Mrs. Wade; "but I wish you would take up a good armful of wood now, so that we wont have to disturb Mr. N—, by going into the room after he gets here."

"If he should come this evening," remarked the husband. "But it is getting late, and I am afraid he won't be here Before the morning."

"Oh, I guess he will be along soon. I have felt all day as if he were coming."

"They say he is a good man, and preaches most powerfully. Mr. Jones heard him preach in New York at the last conference, and tells me he never heard such a sermon as he gave them. It cut right and left, and his words went home to every heart like arrows of conviction."

"I hope he will be here this evening," remarked the wife as she put some cakes in the oven.

"And so do I." remarked Mr. Wade, as he turned away, and went out to the wood pile for an armfull of wood for the expected minister's room.

It was Saturday afternoon, and nearly sundown. Mr. N—, who was expected to arrive, and for whose comfort every preparation in their power to make, had been completed by the family at whose house he was to stay, was the new Presiding Elder of B—District, in the New Jersey Conference. Quarterly meeting was to be held on the next day, which was Sunday, when Mr. N—was to preach, and administer the ordinances of the church. Being his first visit to that part of the District, the preacher was known to but few, if any, of the members, and they all looked forward to his arrival with interest, and were prepared to welcome him with respect and affection.

The house of Mr. Wade was known as the 'minister's home.' For years, in their movements through the circuit, the preachers, as they came round to this part in the field of their appointed labor, were welcomed by Brother and Sister Wade, and the little spare chamber made comfort. able for their reception. It was felt by these honest-hearted people, more a privilege than a duty, thus to share their temporal blessings with the men of God who ministered to them in holy things. They had their weaknesses, as we all have. One of their weaknesses consisted in a firm belief that they were deeply imbued with the genuine religion, and regarded things spiritual above all worldly considerations. They were kind, good people, certainly, but not as deeply read in the lore of their own hearts, not as familiar with the secret springs of their own actions, as all of us should desire to be. But this was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that their position in the church was rather elevated as compared with those around them, and they were the subjects of little distinguishing marks flattering to the natural man.

While Mr. Wade was splitting a log at the wood-pile, his thoughts on the new Presiding Elder, and his feelings warm with the anticipated pleasure of meeting and entertaining him, a man of common appearance approached along the road, and when he came to where the farmer was, stood still and looked at him until he had finished cutting the log, and was preparing to lift the cleft pieces in his arms.

"Rather a cold day this," said the man.

"Yes, rather," returned Mr. Wade, a little indifferently, and in a voice meant to repulse the stranger, whose appearance did not impress him very favorably.

"How far is it to D—?" inquired the man.

"Three miles," replied Mr. Wade, who having filled his arms with wood, was beginning to move off towards the house.

"So far!" said the man in a tone that was slightly marked with hesitation. "I thought it was but a little way from this." Then with an air of hesitation, and speaking in a respectful voice, he added, "I would feel obliged if you would let me go in and warm myself. I have walked for two miles in the cold, an—as D—is still three miles off, I shall be chilled through before I get there."

So modest and natural a request as this, Mr. Wade could not refuse, and yet, in the way he said—"Oh, certainly"—there was a manner that clearly betrayed his wish that the man had passed on and preferred his request somewhere else. Whether this was noticed or not, is of no consequence; the wayfarer on this assent to his request, followed Mr. Wade into the house.

"Jane," said the farmer as he entered the house with the stranger, and his voice was not as cordial as it might have been; "let this man warm himself by the kitchen fire. He has to go all the way to D—this evening and says he is cold."