University of Virginia Library

A COUNTRY RECOLLECTION,
OR,
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

It is many years since I was in a certain neighborhood
among the mountains of New Jersey, where the richest cultivation
enhances the beauty of scenery unusually fine, though not
wild or bold enough for sublimity. It was a valley somewhat
extensive, bordered on the south by abrupt and very high hills,
wooded to their summit; except a small strip of cultivated land
near their base, and terminating on the north side in sloping
uplands covered with the wealth of harvest. A quiet stream
murmured through the meadows, now narrowed between high
banks, now expanding into a lakelet, near which stood a flour-mill.
The house where I passed some days, at this time, had
lawns sloping down to the stream; and I remember there
flourished three large drooping willows, which I hoped might
always escape the axe, and grow old, as guardians of the crystal
waters. Their exact locality was fixed in my memory by
the circumstance, that over their tops might be seen a cottage,
situated on the side of the mountain, just in the verge of the
woods, and about half a mile distant. The loneliness of its
situation gave it something of romance; and I observed then,

that what had once been a garden was choaked with tall weeds
and briers, and that a rude screen of boards had been built directly
in front of the cottage, so as to shut out all view of the neighboring
dwellings. This strange precaution seemed misanthropical;
or, was it adopted for the purpose of concealing from
curious eyes what might pass within door? To my inquiry
who occupied that hermit's hut, the reply was “Walter B—.”

“The B—who married Jane S—?”

“The same.”

Her name called up distant recollections. I had seen Miss
S. once at a rustic ball. She was a country beauty; rather
better educated than most of the damsels who were her companions.
Indeed, her father used to complain that she spent
too much time in reading. His idea was, that after a girl had
left school, and completed her education, she had nothing more
to do with books. But he rarely interfered except by a little
grumbling, with her pursuits, especially as his house was always
in the best order and his dinners excellent. Jane was a choice
housekeeper, and her leisure hours she spent as pleased herself—
not heeding her father's ominous shake of the head, when he
saw her earnestly devouring a book, or noticed the shelves filled
with books in her little chamber. “She will leave off such follies
when she marries,” was his consolatory remark; and in
truth, when the indulged girl did marry, whether she gave up
her reading or not, she did not suffer it to interfere with her
household duties. She was the most exemplary wife and mother
in the country; and all her neighbors predicted happiness from
her union with young B. His father had left him a small
farm, well stocked, with a house large enough for comfort and
even elegance; and few men began life with better prospects of
contentment. Walter was active and ambitious, and wanted to
secure something more than a competency for old age. My

acquaintance with the young couple had left them thus, and I
was naturally somewhat suprised to find them living in a home
of so little pretension.

“The only marvel about it,” said the friend to whom I
expressed my wonder, “is, that they have a home at all.
When Walter took to drink, his stock went first, and then his
farm was neglected, till at last, when sold to pay his debts it
brought less than half its value.”

Alas! it was the common story of the intemperate man;
first moderate indulgence in frequent convivial meetings with
his friends; then occasional excess that unfitted him for work for
days, during which time he would vow and resolve and pledge
his word to his wife that each should be the last, followed by
more frequent returnings to the same excess, till the doom of
the victim was sealed, and the very friends who had led him
into vice abandoned him in disgust.

Since the desertion of his boon companions, Walter had
become gloomy and sullen; a mood which, under the excitement
he now every day sought, gave place to a wild and savage
ferocity. The little children ran from him if they saw him on
the road; and it was rumored that his wretched home too
frequently witnessed his cruel brutality toward his unoffending
wife. But he soon removed to this retired cottage on the mountain,
and the screen of boards he built, effectually excluded all
observation.

I listened to this melancholy history with the deepest
sympathy for the unfortunate girl, now a helpless mother. She
had sought no assistance from the neighbors, and few visited
her, partly because they dreaded her husband, partly because
she herself did not encourage them. But some compassionate
persons sent her provisions from time to time.

While I looked at the little dwelling which was now the

scene of so much misery, with an aching heart for the countless
victims of this dreadful vice, a bright flash suddenly shot up
from the roof of the hut, while at the same time a volume of
smoke poured from the chimney and upper windows. At the
same moment a female figure rushed from behind the screen
before mentioned, clasping an infant to her breast, and dragging
along a child of about four years of age, and rapidly descended
the slope of the mountain. Not many paces behind, her husband
followed, calling upon her with shouts and execrations to
return; but his evident intoxication rendered it impossible for
him to equal the speed of his flying wife; and well was it for
her, for a large knife was in his hand, which he brandished with
frightful menaces. In less time than it would take to narrate
what passed, several of the neighbors had run to meet her.
Just as she reached the stream, through which she rushed with
both children in her arms, then sank exhausted on the bank,
they crowded round her with eager offers of assistance.

B. now came up, heedless of the men and women who
regarded him with looks of fear and horror. He had dropped
the knife, but had not changed his threatening tone; and with
shocking imprecations he ordered his wife to “get up, and come
home this instant.” The poor woman uttered no reply, indeed
she was hardly capable of speech; but the miller, a sturdy
man, answered for her that she should go no more to the home
of a villain who had nearly killed her. These words provoked
B. to unbounded fury; he rushed upon the man who had
spoken them, with such violence as to throw him off his guard,
and would have strangled him but for the interference of others.
When he found himself overpowered by superior strength, he
revenged himself by the most fearful curses, vented especially
on his poor wife, whom again, with abusive epithets, he ordered
to go home, and not expose herself in this ridicnlous manner

“No, Walter,” said his wife, rising at last, and confronting
him with pale but determined face; “no—I will not return to
you. I could have borne, as I have long done, your harshness
and violence towards me, but you have this day raised your
hand against the lives of these children; and, as it is my duty
before God to protect them, I leave you for ever!”

Whatever reply the drunkard might have made, it was
drowned in the indinant clamors of the by-standers, and he
was dragged off to gaol. His wife was cared for by her sympathizing
female acquaintance, and soon provided with a permanent
situation, where, by the labor of her hands, she could
support herself and her little ones. And soon, very soon, did
her changed appearance bear witness to the improvement.
She became contented and even cheerful; and the playful
caresses of her children beguiled her of many sad thoughts.

When B. awoke from his intoxication in prison, the recollection
of what he had done overwhelmed him with shame and
remorse. He sent for one of his neighbors, and entreated him
to go, on his part, to his injured wife, supplicate her forgiveness,
and pledge the most solemn promises of future amendment.
Jane wept much; she forgave him from her heart, as she
prayed God he might be forgiven; but she could not, dared not
trust his oft-violated word, and sacrifice her children. Her
determination was fixed; and for weeks together, though with
a bleeding heart, she returned the same answer to the entreaties
of her repentant husband, she dared not even see him lest her
resolution might be shaken.

When at last B. was discharged from gaol, full of indigna
tion at what he termed the cruel obstinacy of his wife, he made
no effort to see her or the children; but—after shutting himself
up a month or two in the cottage, which had been saved, by
timely attention, from being burned the night of Jane's escape—

he departed, none knew whither. He left a reproachful letter
to his wife, professing himself driven to desperation by her
desertion, and laying on her the blame of his future crimes.
No furniture of any value was found in the house, the greater
part having been disposed of to procure food and—liquor.

Two years after this occurrence, (I have the particulars
from a friend,) a crowd was assembled round the gaol in the
little town of—. A murder, under the most appalling cir
cumstances, had been committed in the neighborhood; a man
to whom suspicion attached had been arrested, and after strict
examination committed for trial. Particulars that had trans
pired, left no doubt of his guilt on the minds of the people;
and it was with suppressed execrations that the multitude followed
the suspected felon to prison. When he disappeared
from their sight within the gloomy walls, the popular rage
broke out in groans and murmurs. One woman, young and
interesting in appearance, who had listened with undisguised
eagerness to a knot of idlers discussing the case, walked away
when they ended their conference, and presenting herself at
the door of the magistrate, who had conducted the examination,
asked leave to speak with him. It was the wife of B. She
had seen her husband led to gaol, loaded with the most terrible
suspicions, and she came to have her worst fears allayed or
confirmed.

The magistrate soothed her by assuring her that the evidence
against B., though strong, was only circumstantial, and
by no means absolutely proved his guilt. It was impossible to
say what might be the event of the trial; but there was ground
for hope. Poor Jane clung to this hope. “Oh, sir,” sobbed
she, “if he is guilty and must die, it is I who have murdered
him! I deserted him, when all the world cast him out!”

When the unhappy wife returned home it was to give way

to the bitter anguish of remorse; to weep and sob all night as
if her heart would break. “How have I been able to kneel,
night and morning, to ask pardon of God,” she cried to herself,
“when I refused my aid to save a fellow-being from destruction!”
And yet—these little ones—and she hung over her
sleeping children; the fair boy, with bright cheek, shaded by
his clustering curls; and the sweet dark-eyed girl, so like him,
before excess had marred his manly beauty! Could she have
brought these innocent ones into wretchedness; perhaps guilt?
Had she not done right to snatch them from ruin, even by
abandoning their father? She knelt once more, and prayed for
guidance, for discernment of the right; and her mind was
calmed.

The next day before noon, the gaol was again visited by
groups of idlers, gazing into the window of B.'s cell, which
looked upon the street. It might be that the prisoner was
maddened by their taunts and derision; he was leaping about
with frantic gestures, clapping his hands and laughing immoderately,
or thrusting his face between the bars to grin defiance
at his tormentors. Suddenly a woman, her face concealed by
a drooping bonnet and thick veil, glided through the crowd, and
reaching up to the window offered a parcel to the prisoner. He
grasped it eagerly, with a wistful look, but the woman did not
stay to be recognised. It was observed, as she hastened away
that her steps tottered, and she held down her head apparently
overcome by emotion. Well might the fearfully changed countenance
of the accused appal one who had known him in better
days!

The parcel contained a portion of food more palatable than
is usually allowed to prisoners, and a small pocket Bible—the
book B. had once prized—the gift of his dying mother. His
name was written on the first page in her hand. Many times

in the week, always at dusk, did the same compassionate visitor
stand at the grated window, and offer food or books to the
prisoner, who was evidently affected by the kind attention. He
ceased his idiotic dancing and laughing; he answered nothing
more to the upbraidings of vagrants without, and those who
looked into his window saw him most frequently seated quietly
at the table reading, or with his head on his hand in deep
thought. With thankfulness unspeakable, Jane saw this
change; but her joy was dashed with sadness, when on one
of her visits the prisoner besought her, with piteous entreaty, to
bring him a bottle of brandy.

It now occurred to the wife to do what she had never
dared, when B. was at home, to force on his perusal some tracts
containing the most awful warnings against intemperance, and
encouragements to the victim to struggle for recovery. He had
no other books to beguile the time; he could not now as formerly,
rail at or punish her, even had he any suspicion who she
was; what might ensue if he read them? Her effort was
crowned with success. Not a week had passed, when the abject
entreaty for liquor, which had been urged night after
night, was dropped, to be renewed no more. Jane's heart
throbbed when she thought of this; but alas! even if he were
really reformed, would he live to prove himself so?

Thus days rolled on, and the time for the trial arrived. The
prisoner had communicated with his counsel; witnesses had
been sent for; the principal lawyer engaged in the prosecution
had unfolded the chain of evidence by which his guilt was to
be proved; the court was to open next morning. The accused
had received some of his former acquaintance during the day,
and as night drew near he was alone. On his table lay a letter
which he had just written; he was pacing the room, tranquil,
but with mind filled with painful thoughts. The gaoler opened

the door, announced a name, received the prisoner's startled
assent; and the next moment the long estranged husband and
wife were together. B. did not stir; he was petrified by surprise;
but Jane rushed to him; her arms were round his neck,
and she wept aloud. Her husband was moved, but struggled
apparently with his pride; he unclasped her arms, stepped back
a little, and looked earnestly at her.

Sad, indeed, the contrast between the two; the man almost
spectral in aspect, haggard, wan, emaciated—not even the
shadow of his former self; the woman blooming in the freshness
of almost maiden beauty: no unhallowed vigils, or excess,
or evil passions, had stamped their traces on her brow, or marred
the symmetry of her form, and the very purity and tenderness
that shone in her expression, rebuked the conscious sinner as
loudly as if an angel's tongue had proclaimed his degradation!
As he shrank back, and stood thus silent, Jane stretched out her
hands beseechingly; “Oh, Walter!” she cried, “have you
not yet forgiven me?”

“Forgive you, Jane? Oh, Heaven! what a wretch am I!”

“I was wrong, Walter, to desert you, even at the worst;
but oh! say you do not bear hard thoughts towards me!”

“Tell me, Jane, is it you who brought me these?” pointing
to the books.

“Yes, Walter; for I thought you would read them now—
and—”

She was interrupted by the sobs of her husband; he sank
on his knees as if to thank her, but to prevent that, she knelt
with him, and prayed for him in the deep emotion of her
heart.

When B. was sufficiently calm, he asked after his children,
and, pointing to the table, said: “There, Jane, is a letter I had
written you, in a better spirit, I trust, than the last. If it were

God's will I should live longer, I might make a better husband
and father; but I dare not think of that now.”

Jane longed to ask one question, but her tongue refused to
utter the words. Her husband seemed to read the meaning of
her anxious look.

“Before high Heaven,” said he, “I declare to you that I
am innocent of the crime for which I shall be tried to-morrow.”

A shriek of joy, scarce suppressed, burst from the wife; she
clasped her hands and raised them upwards; gratitude denied
her speech.

“Then you will live”—she gasped at length.

“No—Jane—I dare not hope it; and I deserve to die. I
am guiltless of murder, but what have I been to you and my
children? What have I been these last years? a reckless
outcast—my own destroyer—the enemy of God! I tell you,
Jane, I have long looked to the gallows as the end of my caeer,
and I have come to it at last! But I have mastered the
tyrant that brought me to this; yes, I have!” He laughed
convulsively as he said this, and his wife turned pale. “Look
here, Jane—look here!” and lifting up the coverlet of his bed,
he produced several bottles of brandy and whiskey. They
were full.

“I asked you to give me liquor,” he continued, “and
you would not; but others, less merciful, brought these to me!
Do not shudder and grow so pale, Jane; I swear to you, I have
not tasted one drop, though I have had them a fortnight!
Those books saved me; for I read of even worse cases than
mine. I took an oath, Jane, on the Bible you brought me the
first night, my mother's Bible, that I would never taste liquor
again. And I have these, to try if I could keep my resolution.”

“Oh, Walter!” was all the sobbing wife could say; but
her tears were those of joy.

“You know, Jane, I was always fond of books, and if I
had not been a slave to drink, I have been fit society even
for the judges who are to try me to-morrow. Oh, if I could
only live my life over! But it is too late now, yet it is something—is
it not,” and his pale face kindled, “to think that I
can, that I have overcome the fiend at last! That I shall not die
a drunkard Remember that, and let everybody know it; I
have it written here in your letter. God will remember it, will
he not, when my soul stands before him in judgment.”

“Oh, my husband, you shall not die!” cried the wife, as
with streaming tears, she clasped him again to her arms.

“The will of God be done; and that I can say now sincerely;
I am willing to go. The Bible says no drunkard shall
enter His kingdom; but I am not a drunkard! I am a degraded
wretch, an outcast of men, about to die a felon's death;
but I feel a triumph, Jane, a joy unspeakable, that I have conquered
my worst enemy. I thank God that he has supported
me through the struggle. It was a terrible one!”

I need not at length record this interview; I need say
no more than that, after weeks of the most agonizing suspense
and anxiety, Jane had the happiness to hear that her
husband was fully acquitted of the crime laid to his charge; to
receive him once more and welcome him to a home.

For months he lay helpless, the victim of a wasting sickness;
but his wife worked day and night to procure him comforts,
and her children played round his bed, and in her was
what the poet sweetly terms, “a hymn of thankfulness,” never
silent. When he recovered, he found it not hard to bear her
company in her cheerful toil, and never would he suffer himself

to be persuaded to touch what once had proved his bane,
and so nearly brought him to an ignominious end.

It is not long since I heard an address of touching eloquence,
on the subject of Temperance, delivered by Walter B.
There was truth in every word of it, for he deeply felt what he
uttered; and it came home to many a heart, and drew tears
from many an eye. He told his own history, and described
himself as once the most wretched and lost among the victims
of that vice, and yet there had been others more lost than he,
who recovered. It was this, he said, that first inspired him
with hope for himself.