University of Virginia Library

2. SCENE II.—THE CONTRAST.

How truly it is said, that “virtue does not always meet its
just reward in this bad world,” where the honest, the excellent
and the noble, are as likely to be made the quarry of an insidious
and subtle foe, as the base, the worthless and the vile.
Nature's universal characteristic, is mutation; change, is written
upon all things. It is a common duty therefore, dictated as well
by safety, as by happiness, to watch with exceeding carefulness,
in order that moral progress may lead from good to better,—else,
through carelessness and temptation, its tendencies may be, in
an opposite direction. About seven years after the period of the
previous chapter, it was our fortune, again to visit the sunny
land, where

Just as the sun was sinking to rest, wrapt and pillowed by one
of those red and portentous hazes, peculiar to the south in the
vernal season of the year, we found ourselves once more entering
the pleasant village of H—.

We had almost forgotten the happy family of the Wiltons,
whom we knew on our first pilgrimage south,—but as we had
several acquaintances in the village and some among them remembered
our former visit to the cottage,—especially the friend
who accompanied us on that memorable morning, it was not long
before their name was introduced. We were anxious to hear of

their welfare, and yet we knew not why, we felt a sad foreboding
that all was not right there. That “something a little
stronger,” came back again with the name, and assumed, in the
mirror of the mind, the hideous demon of the Still—glancing
and gloating upon his victims. To-morrow morning, said our
friend, we will resume again our early walk, of seven years ago,
in the direction of what was then the beautiful Spanish Cottage;
but strange changes have been rung upon the bells of life, from
that day to this. Poor Wilton!—but I will not anticipate—you
shall see and judge for yourself. “Do you remember your remark
then, about the strong man armed?” “Yes,” said we,
perfectly; the vision has been with us a hundred times. “Well,”
said he, significantly, he has been there, sure enough. How
strange is the philosophy of life. Moments, sometimes, make
impressions upon the mind which years of oblivion can never
efface or obliterate. By the dim fore-shadowings of the future,
such seemed to be the character of events, which the coming
day was to evolve.

The next morning, the sun rose murky and red, and as with
swollen face, he peeped forth from the chambers of the east,—
looked more like a drunken sluggard, forced forth from his rest
to his task, than the coming up of a cheerful bride-groom, or as
“a strong man, rejoicing to run a race.” We were soon on our
way towards the cottage. “Come said we, tell us of the ruin
which has befallen the—what's that?”

“O nothing,” said he “but the distant croaking of a
family of Ravens, which have singularly enough taken up their
abode among the magnolias at the cottage. Their hoarse notes
have filled the air of late, to the no little annoyance of the
neighbors; many of whom are superstitious enough to think it
ominous of evil. They say the croaking of the raven, indicates
the shedding of blood; but I have no belief for such things.”

“You remember the time when Wilton made us drink with
him, and pledge his family, when we drank water, and he
“liked something a little stronger?”

“Yes; I remember it as a thing of yesterday.”

“Well, that `liking' never left him, but grew upon him,
without abatement, until, as with bands of iron, it bound him
an abject slave, and it is Forever. He soon became a confirmed
drunkard; though for a year or two, while his fortune
held up his wild-orgies, his debauches and his abuses were
chiefly confined to his own cottage, where, as far as possible,
they were concealed by his amiable wife from the public view.
But as his means became scant, his vice grew bold; every sense
of shame was at length banished, and the once elegant and accomplished
William Wilton was lost. He has for years been
the common tavern-loafer, and pot-house sot. One circumstance,
however, in his miserable career, more than anything
else, removed from him the last vestige of sympathy, and fixed
him in the eye of the community as a loathsome and repulsive
moral offence. There were two aged servants, whom you may
remember, that were left by his father as a part of his estate, a
male and female; whether they were man and wife, or not, I
do not remember. The woman—and probably the very nurse
of his infancy—he sold to a trader for a barrel of whiskey (she
was redeemed, however, by one of the neighbors who would
not see the horrid sacrilege, but He knew nothing of it) and
the other, an old man, he tied up and beat, in a drunken fit, for
some imaginary insult, so severely, that he soon died of his
wounds. It was with great difficulty that the public was restrained
from taking popular vengeance on him for these acts;
but on account of his family they spared him, and partly in the
hope also, I suppose, that he would finish himself with his barrel
of whiskey (so they said). But in this last they were disappointed;

like a monster, as he is, he lived through it, and he
still lives on.”

From the accomplished gentleman you knew him, he has
become an incarnate fiend, and to such an extent does he demonstrate
his nature, that the neighbors often tremble for the
safety of his wife and child. The little girl, you remember,
was an infant when you were here; she is now near eight years
old, and a most intelligent and interesting child. Poor Mrs.
Wilton, she bears it all with meek patience, and much submission,
but every one can see that she is a broken-hearted
woman.

“And all this misery,” said we, “is the fruit of that one
error,—the liking of `something a little stronger.”'

“Well, here we are, in sight of the place,” said our
friend. Mark the contrast of seven years. One thing you will
note, and that is, a strict harmony has been preserved betwixt
the moral and the physical of the scene; the outer change is as
great as that of the inner man.”

“Yes, and all this,” said we, “is the work of the bottle.
Where, now, is the `dignity of intelligent manhood'—the
`freedom,' of which he spoke so eloquently? The dog at his
vomit; the sow in the wallow; or the man with his bottle;
which of these three hath most of the beast?”

There stood the shattered and decayed cottage, it is true,
—like a tomb ruin—a gloomy remembrance of other days; and
there, too, what remained of the splendid Magnolia grove—
time and abuse had done their work on both. The axe had
leveled most of the beautiful trees for firewood, while those that
remained, seemed to stand silent and sad in their dark fol age,
as if sensible of the dishonor that had befallen them. The
largest and noblest of the grove had been ruined by the lightning,

during a severe thunder-storm, and hung in halves, sustained
by the adjacent trees, which seemed in this, as dutiful
children, amidst the desolation, holding up a stricken sire. The
very thunderer had spoken in threatening and in wrath. The
grounds had been let go to waste; briars had usurped the fence
corners, and thistles covered the fields. Since the murder
of the old servant man there was no one left to till the soil,
which, like the moral waste of Wilton's mind, seemed as if a
simoom had passed over it; and was not such the fact? More
blasting than the “Zamiel,” is the fire breath of the Still.
With the cottage itself, the contrast was greater, if possible, than
with the grove. Doorless openings, and sashless windows, with
furniture broken and destroyed, told of times of violence. Desolation
and misery, had been lighted to their possession of the
beautiful cottage, by the spirit-lamp of hell, where now, hand
in hand, they stalked and ruled supreme. A Satan, in the
Garden of Eden, is that “something a little stronger,” in the
house of the happy.

Some one comes; it is the little daughter, and followed to
the door by her ruffian father, who, with threatening and abuse
is sending her upon some errand. He seems even now, at this
early time in the day, to be under the influence of the demon.
See, he is standing and staggering in the door-way still, and
with bloated face and blood-shot eyes, is muttering something
hetwixt his teeth, in reference to that little girl. Alas, for
the fate of a drunkard's daughter!

“And is that man Wilton? The man we knew? the gentleman
and the scholar? Merciful heaven, what a metamorphosis!”

“Did you observe,” said our friend, “that the little girl
had a jug in her hand as she left the house? He is still under

the maddening influence of the last night's drunken brawl, and
has doubtless sent his child to the grocery in the village for
more whiskey to cool off upon. Woe betide that little innocent
if she fail in her degrading mission.”

“Come,” said we, “let us go; we have seen enough. O
it harrows up the very soul. What talents; what usefulness;
what respectability; what everything, indeed, might have been
his; but all—all, are sacrificed to that prince of evils, strong
drink. Why don't Mrs. Wilton take her little daughter and
return to her father's house? he would receive her kindly, we
doubt not.”

“Well, that has been spoken of,” said he, “but when
Wilton is sober, as he sometimes is, his former good nature returns
again; he is kind then, and promises amendment. And
though every body else has lost all confidence in his pledges,
his wife has not, but hopes still. A woman's heart is slow to
give up the object of its early affections; a woman's love never
forsakes. Besides, the match at first, was consummated by an
elopement, and a sense of pride, perhaps, forbids the idea of
such an event as her return. I think, however, that some of
the friends (unknown to her) have written to the old gentleman,
and if I mistake not, he is expected here about this time.”

“I am glad of it, may God speed his journey. I would he
was here now; for O I fear—I fear! Let us return to our
lodgings. Our walk has produced a melancholy upon my
mind which I cannot shake off. If I was superstitious, I should
think there was some fearful calamity at hand. Poor Wilton,
what a terrible contrast has the progress of seven years drawn
upon the tables of his life, and how fearfully has his own hand
guided the pencil. Is there hope? O God! is there hope? let
us think.”