O THE sea, the sea! I love the sea!For nothing on earth seems half as freeAs its crested waves; they mount on high,And seem to sport with the star-gemmed sky.Talk as you will of the land and shore;Give me the sea, and I ask no more.I love to float on the ocean deep,To be by its motion rocked to sleep;Or to sit for hours and watch the spray,Marking the course of our outward way,While upward far in a cloudless skyWith a shriek the wild bird passeth by.And when above are the threatening clouds,And the wild wind whistles 'mid the shrouds,Our masts bend low till they kiss the wave,As beckoning one from its ocean cave,Then hurra for the sea! I love its foam,And over it like a bird would roam.There is that's dear in a mountain home,With dog and gun 'mid the woods to roam;And city life hath a thousand joys,That quiver amid its ceaseless noise;Yet nothing on land can give to meSuch joy as that of the pathless sea.When morning comes, and the sun's first raysAll around our gallant topmast plays,My heart bounds forth with rapturous glee,O, then, 't is then that I love the sea!Talk as you will of the land and shore;Give me the sea, and I ask no more!
THEY knew that she was goingTo holier, better spheres,Yet they could not stay the flowingOf their tears;And they bent above in sorrow,Like mourners o'er a tomb,For they knew that on the morrowThere'd be gloom.There was one among the numberWho had watched the dying's breath,With an eye that would not slumberUntil death.There, as he bent above her,He whispered in her earHow fondly he did love her,Her most dear."One word, 't will comfort send me,When early spring appears,And o'er thy grave I bend meIn my tears.A single word now spokenShall be kept in Memory's shrine,Where the dearest treasured tokenShall be thine."She pressed his hand-she knew him-With the fervor of a child;And, looking fondly to him,Sweetly smiled.And, smiling thus, she startedFor her glorious home above,And her last breath, as it parted,Whispered "Love."
SOMETIMES my heart complainethAnd moans in bitter sighs;And dreams no hope remaineth,No more its sun will rise.But yet I know God liveth,And will do all things well;And that to me he givethMore good than tongue can tell.And though above me lingerAt times dark Sorrow's shroud,I see Faith's upraised fingerPoint far beyond the cloud.
THE heat of noon had passed, and the trees began to cast their evening shadows, when, in company with a friend, I seated myself in a carriage, and drove off in the direction of Mount Vernon. We crossed the long bridge, and found ourselves in the old State of Virginia.
It was a delightful afternoon; one just suited to the purpose to which we had devoted it. The trees were clad in fresh, green foliage, and the farms and gardens were blooming into early life. To myself, no season appears so beautiful as that of spring. All seasons to me are bright and glorious, but there is a charm about spring that captivates the soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, and bends over the placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bends before her mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds and rubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope; all tending upward, onward to the bright future. "The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words."
In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria. Between this place and Washington a steamboat plies, going and returning four times a day. The road from Washington to Alexandria is about decent; but the road from thence to Mount Vernon is in the worst possible condition,—so bad, in fact, that we dismounted and walked a considerable distance, it being far less tiresome to walk than to ride. The road winds in a very circuitous route through a dense forest, the lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, cast their deep shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise have been gloomy, was enlivened by the variable songs of the mocking-birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed though less melodious companions.
Occasionally we passed the hut of a negro, and met a loaded team from some Virginian farm, drawn by three or four ill-looking, yet strong and serviceable horses. These teams were managed by negroes,—never less than two, and in some cases by three or four, or, as in one instance, by an entire family, man, wife and children, seated on their loads, whistling and singing, where also sat a large black-and-white mastiff. Long after we passed and they had receded from our view, we could distinctly hear their melodious voices singing their simple yet expressive songs, occasionally interrupted by a "gee, yawh, shau," as they urged on their dilatory steeds.
The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of stone; mostly, however, of boards, put loosely together, and in some instances of large logs, the crevices being filled with mud, which, the sun and wind having hardened, were white-washed, presenting a very strong though not very beautiful appearance, the architecture of which was neither Grecian nor Roman, but evidently from "original designs" by a not very fastidious or accomplished artist.
Groups of women and children were about these houses; some seated on the grass, in the shade of the tall trees; others standing in the doors, all unemployed and apparently having nothing to do but to talk, and this they appeared to engage in with a hearty good will.
We continued our way over stones, up steep, deep-rutted hills, covered partly with branches and brambles, and down as steep declivities, through ponds and brooks, now and then cheered by the pleasing prospect of a long road, evidently designed to illustrate the "ups and downs of life."
After a tiresome journey, partly walked, partly ridden, which was somewhat relieved of its tediousness by the romantic and beautiful scenery through which we passed, we came in view of Mount Vernon.
An old, infirm, yet good, sociable negro met us at the gate, and told us that there was another road to the Mount, but that it was not as good as the one we came over, and also that there was a private road, which was not as good as either of the others! We smiled, threw out a hint about a‰rial navigation. He smiled also, and, thinking we doubted his word, said, "Indeed, it is not as good; I would n't tell you a lie about it." Mercy on pilgrims to Mount Vernon! If you ever go there, reader, do provide yourself with a conscience that can't be shaken out of you.
Having been kindly furnished with a letter from Mr. Seaton, the editor of the Intelligencer, and Mayor of Washington city, to the proprietor of the estate, we inquired whether he was at home, and with pleasure learned that he was.
We passed into what we deemed an almost sacred enclosure, so linked is it with the history of our country, and the glorious days that gave birth to a nation's freedom. It seemed as though we had entered an aviary, so many and so various the birds that floated in the air around us, and filled it with the rich melody of their songs.
At a short distance stood a beautiful deer, as if transfixed to the spot, his large, black, lustrous eyes turned towards us, his ears erect, till, suddenly starting, he darted away, and leaped down the steep hill-side to the water's brink.
The house I need not describe, as most persons are acquainted with its appearance, from seeing the numerous engraved representations of it. It shows many evidences of age and decay. Time is having his own way with, it, as the hand that would defend it from his ravages, and improve its looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly as possible in the same condition as when occupied by our first president. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeavoring to allay our curiosity by asking more questions than our attendant could conveniently answer and retain his senses.
We saw the massive key of that old French prison-house, the Bastile, presented to General Washington by that friend of freedom and humanity, General Lafayette, soon after the destruction of that monument of terror. We noticed that depredations had been committed by visitors upon the costly marble fire-frame, which was a gift to Washington.
Mr. Washington being called to the farm, we availed ourselves of the services of the old negro before mentioned, who led us around the estate. On our way to the tomb, we passed through what we judged to be a kitchen. The floor was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearly all of one side of the room; one of those old-fashioned contrivances which were in vogue in those days when people went more for comfort than appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, who gazed at us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, the real free soil of Virginia. They seemed to think our intentions more of a warlike than a peaceable nature. We soon inclined them to the latter belief, however, by gently patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, and distributing a few pennies among the crowd.
Five minutes' walk, and we were at the tomb.
"There is the old General," said the aged negro, as he touched lightly the sarcophagus with his cane; "that, yonder, is his wife," pointing to a similar one at the left.
Silently I stood and gazed at the marble coffin that held the mortal remains of him whom, when he lived, all people loved, and the memory of whom, now that he has passed from our material vision, all people revere. A few branches of cypress lay upon it, and at its base a few withered flowers.
The sarcophagus that holds the dust of Washington is placed upon a low pedestal, formed of brick. A brick wall is at the sides, and an iron slat fence or gateway in front. Over this gateway a white stone is set in the brick-work, and bears this inscription:
Short, indeed, but how full of food for thought!
"General George Washington!" He needs no long and fulsome epitaph carved in marble to tell his worth. Did his memory depend upon that alone, the marble would crumble into dust, mingle with his, and his name pass away with the stone that man vainly thought would preserve it. No; his monument is a world made free, and his memory as lasting as immortal mind. Wherever the light of freedom shall penetrate, it will bear on its every glistening ray his cherished name; and whenever and wherever men shall struggle with oppression, it shall inspire them with vigor, and cheer them on to victory.
Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crumble to dust; but the memory of Washington will live as long as there is a heart to love, or a mind to cherish a recollection of goodness.
"He was a good old man," said the negro, "and he has gone to his rest."
"We are all going," he continued, after a pause. I thought a tear stole down his wrinkled face; but he turned his back to me, and left me to my own reflections.
Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes of a bird. Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf was there. In front, far below, lay the Potomac. Not a breath of wind moved the surface of its waters, but calmly, peacefully, undisturbed, the river moved on, as though conscious of the spot it was passing. On its glassy surface were reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it as it flowed, and the last rays of a declining sun tinted with their golden light the hills on the opposite shore.
I stood at the tomb of Washington: on my right stood a distinguished Indian chief; on my left, "Uncle Josh," the old African, of three-score years and ten. We represented three races of the human family, and we each were there with the same feelings of love, honor, and respect to departed worth.
Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embankment, and plucked a few green leaves from a branch that hung over the tomb; gazed once more, and yet again, within the enclosure; then turned away, and hastened to overtake my companions, who were far in advance.
If our country is ever called to pass through another struggle, mayGod, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washington!
The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden with the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A lively squirrel sprang across our path; a belated bird flew by; and, amid the pleasant, quiet scenes of rural life, we wended our way homeward.
I SEEMED to live beyond the present time;
Methought it was when all the world was free,And myriad numbers, from each distant clime,
Came up to hold their annual jubilee.From distant China, Afric's sunburnt shore,
From Greenland's icebergs, Russia's broad domain,They came as men whom fetters bound no more,
And trod New England's valley, hill, and plain.They met to hold a jubilee, for allWere free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thrall.Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done;
The cry like wild-fire through the nations ran;Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son,
Threw off their chains-each felt himself a man.Thrones that had stood for ages were no more;
Man ceased to suffer; tyrants ceased to reign;And all throughout the world, from shore to shore,
Were loosed from slavery's fetter and its chain;And those who once were slaves came up as free,Unto New England's soil, to keep their jubilee.New England! 't was a fitting place, for it
Had sent its rays upon them, as a starBeams from the glorious heaven on slaves who sit
In chains, to lure them where free seraphs are;The light it had shed on them made them start
From their deep lethargy, then look and seeThat they of Freedom's boon might have a part,
Their nation glorious as New England be.And then like men they struggled till they won,And Freedom's high-born light shone as a noonday sun.Men gathered there who were men; nobly they
Had long and faithful fought 'gainst error's night,And now they saw the sunlight of that day
They long had hoped to see, when truth and rightShould triumph o'er the world, and all should hold
This truth self-evident, that fellow-men,In God's own image made, should not be sold
Nor stalled as cattle in a market-pen.Praises they sang, and thanks they gave to God,That he had loosed the chain, and broke the oppressor's rod.They gazed o'er all the past; their vision's eye
Beheld how men in former years had groaned,When Hope's own flame burned dim, and no light nigh
Shone to disperse the darkness; when enthronedSat boasting Ignorance, and 'neath its sway
Grim Superstition held its lurid lamp,That only darkened the obstructed way
In which man groped and wandered, till the damp,Cold, cheerless gateway of an opening tombMet his extended hand, and sealed his final doom.Perchance one mind, illumined from above,
Did strive to burst the heavy bonds it wore,Pierce through the clouds of error, and, in love
With its new mission, upward seek to soar.Upon it shone truth's faintest, feeblest ray;
It would be free; but tyrants saw and crushedMan's first attempt to cast his chains away,
The first aspirings of his nature hushed.Thus back from men was Freedom's genius driven,And Slavery's chains in ten-fold strength were riven.In gazing o'er the past, 't was this they saw-
How Evil long had triumphed; but to-dayMan bowed to nothing but God's righteous law,
And Truth maintained its undisputed sway.Right conquered might; and of this they were proud,
As they beheld all nations drawing near,—Men from all lands, a vast, unnumbered crowd,
While in their eyes full many a sparkling tearTrembled a while, then from its cell did start,Witness to the deep joys of an o'erflowing heart.There came up those who'd crouched beneath the lash,
Had bowed beneath the chains they scarce could bear,Till Freedom's lightning on their minds did flash,
And roused them as a lion in his lairIs roused when foes invade it, then, with strength
Near superhuman, one bold effort madeTo break their cruel bondage, till at length
Beneath their feet they saw their fetters laid.'T was then they lifted their freed hands on high,And peans loud and long resounded through the sky.Up, up they came, and still the bannered host
Far in the distance met my wondering eye;On hill and dale, on all New England's coast,
White banners waved beneath a cloudless sky.The aged sire leaned on his oaken staff,
Manhood stood up in all its strength and pride,And youth came dancing with a joyous laugh,
With woman, lovely woman, at their side;Bright eyes, glad hearts, and joyous souls, were there,Free as the light that shone, unfettered as the air.The mind, that spark of Deity within
That hath its nurture from a higher world,No longer bound by tyranny and sin,
Beheld its highest, noblest powers unfurled.No more did Error bind it to its creed,
Or Superstition strive to blind its sight;It followed only where God's truth did lead,
And trusted him to guide its course aright.The inner as the outer man was free,And both united held this glorious jubilee.—'T was all a vision, and it passed away,
As dreams depart; yet it did leave behindIts deep impressions, thoughts that fain would stay
And hold communion with the tireless mind.I wished that it were real; alas! I heard
The clank of Slavery's fetters rend the air;And feelings of my heart were deeply stirred,
When I beheld my brethren, who dareProclaim all "equal," yet in chains of steelBind men, who, like themselves, can pain and pleasure feel.God in his wisdom meant all should be free,
All equal: each a brother unto man.Presumptuous mortal! who His great decree
Durst strive to change to suit thy selfish plan!Know thou that his fixed purpose will be done,
Though thou arrayest all thy puny strengthIn war against it! All who feel the sun
Shall own his goodness, and be free at length.God cares for mortals, though he reigns on high;Freedom is His own cause, and it shall never die!My country! if my heart one wish doth hold,
For thee and for thy good, it is that thouNo more permit thy children to be sold!
Forbid that they as slaves to man shall bow!For them our fathers nobly fought and bled;
For them they poured their life-blood forth as rain;Shall it in foreign lands of us be said,
We bind our brothers with a galling chain?While the Old World is struggling to be free,America! shall this foul charge be laid to thee?We all may err; may oft be led astray;
Let him who'd free the slave be careful heIs not a slave himself to some fond way
He would adopt to set his brother free!All seek one end; for all one good would gain;
Then, on as brothers, hand in hand proceed!Paths that seem intricate will all be plain,
If we but follow where God's truth would lead.
Trust Him for strength in darkness and in light;His word will cheer us on,—His presence give us might.
ON the topmost branch of the highest treeI sit and sing, I am free! I am free!When the lightnings flash, when the thunders roar,I plume my wings and away I soar!But soon on the branch of a lofty treeGayly I sing, I am free! I am free!A huntsman he came by my nest one day,And thought that with gun my song he would stay;But I left my nest when he thought me there,And I roamed about in my native air.Then, when he was gone, on the highest treeGayly I sung, I am free! I am free!It is I, 't is I, that at dawn of dayGo to meet the sun at its earliest ray.I love its heat; so I cheer it alongWith chirping notes and melodious song;And all the day on the highest treeGayly I sing, I am free! I am free!When the dusky shades of the night appear,In my nest on high I have naught to fear;Sweetly I slumber till dawning of day,Then to the East, for the sun, I'm away,Till, borne on its rays to the highest tree,Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free!O, I love my nest, and my nest loves me!It rocks like a bark on the dancing sea;Gently it bows when I wish to retire;When in, it rises higher and higher.O, I love my nest, and I love the tree,Home and the haunt of the bird that is free!
I CHANGE but in dying,—I am faithful till death!I will guard thee with care from pollution's foul breath;I promise that ne'er in neglect thou shalt pine;I change but in dying,—say, wilt thou be mine?I come not with riches; good fortune ne'er blest me;Yet one of less worth hath often carest me;The light of true love o'er thy pathway shall shine;I change but in dying,—say, wilt thou be mine?I change but in dying,—no holier vowFrom lips mortal e'er came than I breathe to thee now;It comes from a heart with love for thee sighing;Believe me, 't is true,—I change but in dying!
GO, break the chains that bind the slave;Go, set the captive free;For Slavery's banners ne'er should wave,And slaves should never be.Yet not in anger. Hasty wordsShould not to thee belong,They will not loose a single link,But bind them yet more strong.O, while ye think to him in chainsA brother's rights are due,Remember him who binds those chains!He is thy brother, too!
"WILL you sign the pledge?" asked one young man of another.
"No!" was the ready response; and, after a moment's pause, "You are wrong, and I am right. You wish to deprive me of a social glass, free companionship with those I love, life's best enjoyments, and to live bound down to the contracted limits of a temperance-pledge.-Me sign! No! Go ask leave of the soaring eagle to clip his wings; of the oriole to tarnish his bright plumage; of the bounding deer to fetter his free limbs,—but do not ask me to sign a pledge!"
The young men parted. Each went his way; one to his counting-room, the other to his home.
The proprietors of the store with which the former was connected had been for a number of years busily engaged in the importation, adulteration and sale of wines and brandies. From the cellar to the attic of their large warehouse, pipes, puncheons, and barrels of the slow poison were deposited, with innumerable bottles of wine, reputed to be old as a century, if not older. A box or two of Flemish pipes relieved the sameness of the scene,—barrels on barrels.
From the counting-room of the establishment a large number of young men had gone forth to become either wholesale or retail dealers in the death-drugged merchandise. The ill-success which attended these, and the lamentable end to which they arrived, would have been singular and mysterious, had it followed in the wake of any other business. But, as it was, effect followed cause, and such is the law of nature.
One, a young man of promise in days gone-by, recently became the inmate of an alms-house in a distant city; another, urged to madness by frequent potations, died as the fool dieth; and a third, who had been the centre light of a social circle, as he felt the chill of death come upon him, called all his friends near, and said to them, "Deal not, deal not in the arrows of death, lest those arrows pierce thine own heart at last!"
All these facts were known to the public; yet they countenanced the traffic in which Messrs. Laneville & Co. were engaged. They were merchants, they were wealthy; for these reasons, it would seem, the many-headed public looked up to them with a feeling bordering on reverence, somewhat awed by their presence, as though wealth had made them worthy, while many a less rich but ten-fold more honest man walked in the shadow of the mighty Magog, unseen,—uncared for, if seen. Messrs. Laneville & Co. knew that the law was against their business; they knew, also, that public opinion, if not actually in favor of it, willingly countenanced it.
Perchance the cry of some unfortunate widow might at times reach their ears; but it was speedily hushed by the charmed music of the falling dollar, as it was exchanged for their foul poison. Forgetting they were men, they acted as demons, and continued to deal forth their liquid death, and to supply the thousand streams of the city with the cause of the crime it was obliged to punish, and the pauperism it was obliged to support.
The "Vincennes" had just arrived at the wharf as James entered the store. It had been the custom of the owners, on the annual arrival of this vessel, to have a party on board. On this occasion, they made the usual arrangements for the festivity. Cards of invitation were speedily written, and distributed among members of the city government, editors, clergymen, and other influential persons. James was free to invite such of his friends as he chose, and in doing so the question arose whether he should ask George Alverton to be present. It was known to him that George was a teetotaller, and had that morning invited him to sign the pledge. He knew that at the entertainment wine would circulate. He knew that some would indulge rather freely, and that the maintenance of a perfect equilibrium by such would be very difficult. Suppose he, himself,—that is, James,—should be among these last mentioned, and that, too, before his friend George; would it not demolish his favorite argument, which he had a thousand times advanced, that he knew right from wrong,—when to drink and when to stop drinking? yet, thought he, I may not indulge too freely. Yes; I will maintain my position, and show by practice what I teach by preaching. Besides, it would be very impolite, as well as uncourteous, in me, not to invite one whose character I value so highly as his,—one whose friendship I so much esteem. I will invite him. He shall be present, and shall see that I can keep sober without being pledged to do so.
George Alverton was the son of a nobleman. Start not, republican reader, for we mean not a stiff-starched branch of English nobility, but one of America's noblemen,—and hers are nature's! He was a hard-working mechanic; one of God's noblest works,—an honest man! Americans know not, as yet, the titled honors of the Old World; and none, save a few, whose birth-place nature must have mistook, would introduce into a republican country the passwords of a monarchical one.
"An invite for you," said the laughing Josephine, as George entered at dusk. "And ten to one it's from that black-eyed Kate, who is bewitching all the young men within a twenty-mile circuit with her loving glances-eh? A match, ten to one!"
"Always gay," said George, as he turned half aside to avoid the mischievous look of his sister; "but, by the way, Jos, to be serious, an invite did you say? How do you know that?"
"O, by the way 'tis folded; we girls have a way of knowing a love-letter from bills of exchange, and an invitation from bills of lading. Just look at it; see how pretty 'tis enveloped, how handsomely directed,—George Alverton, Esq., Present. It's no use, George; you needn't look so serious. You are a captured one, and when a bird's in a net he may as well lie still as flutter!"
Josephine handed the note to her brother, slyly winking as she did so, as much as to say, "The marriage-bells are ringing, love."
George, observing the superscription, was convinced that it was fromJames Clifton, and remarked,
"Don't be too hasty; it is from James; the direction must be wrong; it was doubtless intended for you. Look out, Jos; you may be the captured one, after all!"
Josephine was not to be thus thrown from her ground; so, turning to her brother with a laugh, she said,
"For me! Well, if so 't is so; but I judge from what I see. Notwithstanding your insinuation that James writes to no one but myself, I'll venture a bright gold dollar that this is for yourself, even though it be from James. Open the budget, and prove the truth of what I say."
George untied the white ribbon that bound it, and, opening the envelope, found an invitation to a gentleman's party to be held that evening on board the "Vincennes." Josephine laughed merrily over what she deemed her brother's defeat, and George as heartily over what he deemed his victory. He was advised to go; not, however, without an accompanying hint of its being a dry affair, as ladies were to be excluded. Josephine was puzzled to know the reason of their exclusiveness, and what festivity was to be engaged in of which they could not partake.
"I scarcely know what to do," said George, "as wines will be circulated, and I shall be asked, a dozen times or more, to drink of them."
"Go, by all means," said his sister; "stand your own ground, be firm, be resolute, refuse if asked to partake; but do so in a manner that, while it shows a determination to resist temptation, will not offend, but rather induce him you respect to think whether it will not he best for him also to refuse."
"I will. I am aware of the situation in which James is placed. He has a generous, a noble heart, that needs but to know the right to do it. I will go; and if by example, persuasion or otherwise, I can prevail upon him to sign the pledge, I will do so, and thank God for it. I will speak to him kindly, and in reason. Others will drink, if he does not; others will fall, if he escapes; and such examples are the most convincing arguments that can be used to prove that an unpledged man, in these days of temptation, is unsafe, and unmindful of his best and dearest interests."
Notwithstanding the short interval between the reception of the cards and the hour of festivity, the time appointed saw a goodly number assembled in the well-furnished, richly-decorated cabins of the ship.
It was evident that some individuals had been busy as bees, for all was clean and in the best of order. Wreaths of evergreen and national flags decorated the vessel, and bouquets of bright and fragrant flowers, conspicuously arranged, loaded the air with their sweet perfumes. There were card-tables and cards, scores of well-filled decanters, and glasses almost without number. At one end of the cabin stood a table filled with fruits of the most costly kind. There were oranges fresh from the land that gave them growth, and other products of sunny Italy and the islands beyond the seas. The captain was as lively as a lark, and as talkative as wit and wine could make him. He spoke of his quick voyage, praised his ship till praise seemed too poor to do its duty, boasted of its good qualities, said there was not a better craft afloat, and finished his eulogy by wishing success to all on board, and washing it down with a glass of Madeira, which, he said, was the stuff, for he made it himself from grapes on the island.
Messrs. Laneville & Co. were in high glee. They drank and played cards with men worth millions; spoke of the inclemency of the season, and expressed great surprise that so much poverty and wretchedness existed, with one breath, and with the next extolled the wines and administered justice to the eatables. Editors were there who had that morning written long "leaders" about the oppression of the poor by the rich, and longer ones about the inconsistencies of their contemporaries, who ate and drank, and dreamt not of inconsistency in themselves, though they guided the press with temperance reins, and harnessed themselves with those who tarried long at the wine.
James drank quite often, and George as often admonished him of his danger. But the admonitions of a young man had but little if any influence, counteracted as they were by the example of the rich and the great about him. There was Alderman Zemp, who was a temperance man in the world, but a wine-drinker in a ship's cabin. He had voted for stringent laws against the sale of liquors, and had had his name emblazoned on the pages of every professedly temperance paper as a philanthropist and a righteous man; and on the pages of every anti-temperance publication, as a foe to freedom, and an enemy to the rights of humanity. But he drank; yes, he had asked James to take a glass of the water of Italy, as he called it. Clergymen, so called, disgraced themselves, and gave the scoffers food for merriment. Judges who that day might have sentenced some unfortunate to imprisonment for drinking, drank with a gusto equalled only by lawyers who would talk an hour in court to prove a man discreditable evidence because he was known to visit bar-rooms! It was the influence of these, and such like, that made James drink, and caused the labor of George to prove all unavailing. It is the example of the rich that impedes the progress of temperance,—they who loll on damask sofas, sip their iced champagnes and brandies, and never get "drunk," though they are sometimes "indisposed."
The clock struck twelve, then one, and the morning hours advanced, light-foot messengers of the coming day. The gay and the jocund laugh was hushed, and the notes that told of festive mirth were silenced. Nature, either fatigued by exertion or stupefied by wine, had sank to repose; and those who had lingered too long and indulged too freely were lying on the cabin-floor helpless. George retired at a seasonable hour. James remained, and fell, as others, before the enchanting wine-cup's power!
The next morning George called at the store of Laneville & Co. No one was in save a small lad, who, to his inquiry, replied that all were sick. The youth was a short, porpoise-shaped lad, who appeared quite independent for his age and station, and told George that he had better call the next day, as the folks would n't be down. In an instant George suspected the cause of their absence. Though he knew James would be mortified to be seen, yet he determined upon visiting him, thinking it a favorable opportunity to submit to him the expediency of taking that step which he had urged upon him on the morning previous.
Conscious of being engaged in an act of duty, he ascended the steps that led to the door of the house. He rang; a servant-girl answered his call.
"Holloa!" shouted a voice at the head of the stairs. "Who's there?-what cow's got into my pasture now? Another glass, friends,—once more! Now drink, 'Death to the temperance cause, and ill-luck to fanatics!' Holloa! down below,—come aloft!"
"Hush! be quiet," said a female voice, in a whisper. "James, do respect yourself."
"Hush! who says hush? My soul's in arms; come on, John Duff! bring liquor here, and cursed be he who says, I've had enough!"
The closing of a door put an end to this extemporaneous address. George stood like a statue; he knew not which course to take,—whether to go up to his friend's room, or go down to the street. He soon determined, and sent word that he wished to speak to James. In a moment the latter was again to be heard declaiming disconnected sentences on all manner of subjects, until, learning the wish of George, he shouted,
"Yes, tell him to come up and revel in the groves of Madeira, or dance with peasant-girls at the grape-gatherings in Sicily! Yes, George, up here, and see how a man can live a temperance life without signing the pledge, and be as independent as he pleases!"
As George entered, James grasped his hand,—swung him round rather familiarly, and pushed him towards a chair.
The furniture and all that was in the room was in the greatest confusion, not excepting James Clifton himself. There was a boot-jack and a vase of flowers side by side on the mantel; a pair of boots on the centre-table, with two or three annuals on them, as though to keep them from being blown away; a nice hat stood on the hearth filled with coal-ashes, while an inkstand upside down on a pile of linen bosoms had left an impression not easily effaced; the paintings that were in the room were turned face towards the wall,—some freak of James', as though ashamed to have them see the performances.
"Now, George," said Mr. Clifton, "you can be convinced of the truth of my doctrine. I did n't sign the pledge, and I'm as sober, sober as a brandy-smasher! You recollect what a great poet says,—Drink till the moon goes down. I can improve that; I say,—Drink till yourselves go down. What an age this is, when temperance fanatics dance through the world to smash decanters, and make one pledge himself to be a fool! Independence is my motto! I go for independence now, independence forever, and as much longer as possible. Who says I am not right? Deluded mortals, who wink at sin, and kick at brandies! Magnificent monstrosities, making manliness moonshine; metaphysical Moors murdering Munchausen-"
"But hold, James," said George, interrupting him in his remarks; "keep within bounds,—let us reason." It was not with much hope of success that George asked his friend to "reason," for his condition was one not in the least degree favorable to such a performance.
"Reason?" exclaimed James. "I'm not a reasonable,—reasoning, I mean,—I'm not a reasoning being! Go ask the pigs to reason!"
Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argument, for he immediately said,
"Don't you see the ill effects of last night's indulgence in the confusion around you, and feel them in your own mind and body?"
"Now you talk like a man. Let us send the 'James-town' to Ireland with bread and butter. 'T is a vote! passed unanimously by both houses of Congress. We'll fire a full broadside of gingerbread at the old Green Isle, and teach the people to eat for a living."
This rambling from the inquiry George had made induced him to relinquish all hope of influencing him at that time. He saw how he had fallen; and he needed no prophet's ken to behold his future course, unless he turned from the path he was now so enthusiastically following.
Seeing that no good could be effected by his remaining, George arose to depart, when James caught his arm, and told him not to be in such haste.
"I want you to take a glass of wine;" and, ringing the bell, a servant was at the door before Mr. Alverton had an opportunity to say or do anything.
"You know I don't drink wines," said George; "why do you ask me?"
"Don't drink?"
"You look surprised, but you know I do not."
"Everybody drinks."
"Not all, if I am one of that extensive number."
"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, and my friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript, a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cake without any ginger in it. Say, got a pledge in your pocket? I have; here it is:" and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had written some half-legible lines.
"See how you like it;—it is what is called the Independent Pledge.I'll read it.
"'We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other liquors beneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in particular, pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters of politics and phrenology.'"
The servant, who yet stood at the door waiting orders, burst forth into a loud laugh, as the reading of this was finished, while George, though inwardly sorrowing over the situation of his friend, could not refrain from smiling at his ridiculous appearance and doings. There was a good humor running through the method of his madness, that made him far from being disagreeable.
Mr. Alverton passed to the door, and, motioning the servant aside, entreated her not to bring him wine.
"Well, sir, that be's just as he says," said she, in a loud voice, and in a manner that convinced Mr. Alverton that she cared not as to what might follow.
"Good!" shouted James. "Why, she's my confidential; she's as true to me as a book. Sal, bring up two decanters of that best."
The girl laughed, and bounded out of the room to do as he requested.
The wine came; a long talk ensued, as unmeaning and useless as that we have above related, and George left with a heavy heart, promising to call on the morrow.
As he entered the street, and the cool, fresh air of an autumn morning greeted him, he felt somewhat revived, and, quickening his step, he soon reached his home. He dare not mention his adventure to Josephine, though he wanted to. She was the betrothed of James. In one month they were to be married! Dark and frowning were the clouds that gathered in their blackness over the mind of George, as he mused on what had been and what was to be. Should he tell her all? It was his duty. Should he shrink from the performance of his duty? No.