The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
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EMMA ALTON. |
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 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
EMMA ALTON.
By Mrs. Caroline H. Butler.
It was Emma's bridal morn. I saw her standing
at the door of her father's cottage, a simple wreath of
the pure lily of the valley entwined amid the rich
braids of her auburn hair—the image of innocence
and happiness. That morning, fair Emma Alton had
given her hand where long her young affections had
handsome countenance of Reuben Fairfield, and the
pride and love with which he regarded the fair being
at his side, it seemed impossible that aught but happiness
could follow the solemn rites the cottage had
that morning witnessed.
The dwelling of my friend to whose rural quiet I
had escaped from the heat and turmoil of the city,
was directly opposite the neat little cottage of Emma's
parents, and as I sat at my chamber window, my eye
was of course attracted by the happy scene before
me. The morning was truly delightful—scarce a
cloud floated o'er the blue vault of heaven—now and
then a soft breeze came whispering through the fragrant
locust blossoms and proud catalpas, then stooping
to kiss the dewy grass, sped far off in fantastic
shadows over the rich wheat and clover fields. All
seemed in unison with the happiness so apparent at
the cottage—the birds sang—butterflies sported on
golden wing—bees hummed busily. Many of Emma's
youthful companions had come to witness the ceremony,
and to bid adieu to their beloved associate, for as
soon as the holy rites were concluded, Reuben was to
bear his fair bride to a distant village, where already a
beautiful cottage was prepared, over which she was to
preside the charming mistress.
There is always, I believe, a feeling of sadness
commingled with the pleasure with which we regard
the young and trusting bride, and as I now looked
upon Emma standing in the little portico surrounded
by the bright and happy faces of her companions, her
thought of what her future lot might be. Was my
sigh prophetic? Presently the chaise which was to
convey the new-married pair to their future home,
drove gaily to the gate of the cottage. I saw Emma
bid adieu to her young friends as they all gathered
around her. I saw her fair arms thrown around the
neck of her weeping mother, and then, supported by
her father and Reuben, she was borne to the carriage.
Long was she pressed to her father's heart, ere he resigned
her for ever to her husband.
“God bless you, my child!” at length said the old
man; but no sound escaped Emma's lips—she threw
herself back in the chaise, and drew her veil hastily
over her face—Reuben sprang to her side—waved his
hand to the now weeping assemblage at the cottage
door, and the chaise drove rapidly away.
I soon after left the village, and heard no more of
the youthful pair. Three years elapsed ere I again
visited that pleasant spot, and the morning after my
arrival, as I took my favourite seat, and looked over
upon the little dwelling opposite, the blithe scene I
had there witnessed, recurred to me, and I marvelled
if all which promised so fair on the bridal morn had
been realized. To my eye the cottage did not look as
cheerful, the air of neatness and comfort which before
distinguished it seemed lessened. I noticed the walk
was now overgrown with grass, and the little flower
plot, about which I had so often seen Emma employed,
was now rank with weeds. The blinds were all closely
shut, and every thing about the cottage looked comfortless
a female appeared, bearing in her hand a small basket
which she proceeded to fill with vegetables growing
sparsely among the weeds and tall tangled grass. Her
step was feeble, and she seemed hardly capable of
pursuing her employment. As she turned her face
toward me I started with surprise—I looked at her
again more earnestly—is it possible—can that be Emma,
thought I—can that pale, wretched looking girl
be her whom I last saw a happy, blooming bride?
Yes, it was Emma! Alas! how soon are the bright
visions of youth dispelled; like those beautiful images
which flit around the couch of dreams, they can never
be realized.
The history of Emma is one which has often been
written by the pen of truth—a tearful record of man's
ingratitude and folly—of woman's all-enduring love,
sufferance, and constancy.
The first few months of Emma's married life flew
by in unalloyed happiness. Reuben lived but in her
smiles, and life, to the young affectionate girl, seemed
but a joyous holiday, and she the most joyous participant.
Too soon the scene was changed. Reuben
Fairfield was of a gay and reckless nature, fond of conviviality,
of the jest and song, he was consequently a
great favourite with the young men of the village, and
there had been rumours that even before his marriage
he had been too free a partaker of the wine-cup. If
this were the case, months certainly passed on after
that event, when Reuben seemed indifferent to any
society but that of his young wife. Little by little
that even he himself could not probably have defined
the time when he again found pleasure away from the
home of love and Emma. In the only tavern of the
village, a room was devoted exclusively to the revels
of a band of reckless, dissolute young men, with whom
Reuben had at one time been intimate, and it needed
but the slightest appearance on the part of the latter
to tolerate once more their idle carousals, than with
one consent they all united to bring back the Benedict
to his old habits. They thought not of the misery
which would follow the success of their fiendish plot;
of the broken heart of the young being who looked
up to their victim as her only hope and happiness.
It was the gay spring-time, when Reuben Fairchild
bore his bride away from the arms of her aged parents;
but what became of the solemn vows he then
uttered, to protect and cherish their beloved daughter?
For when next the forest trees unfolded their tender
leaves, and the orchards were white with fragrant
blossoms, misery and despair had fallen as a blight
upon poor Emma! The heart of affection is the last
to acknowledge the errors of a beloved object, so it
was with Emma; but her cheek grew pale, and her
mild blue eyes dimmed beneath their wo-charged lids.
Reuben now almost entirely neglected his patient,
still loving wife. In vain she reasoned, entreated,
implored, yet never reproached. He was alike regardless;
daily he gave himself up more and more to the
insatiate destroyer, until destruction, both of soul and
body, followed. And loud rang the laugh, and the
forth its loathsome jargon from the Tempter's Hell!
There were times, it is true, when he would pause in
his reckless career; and then hope once more buoyed
up the sinking heart of Emma; and when for the
first time he pressed their babe to his bosom, while a
tear fell on its innocent cheek, it is no wonder that
the young mother felt her sorrows ended. That tear,
the tear, as she thought, of repentance, had washed
them all away. But when vice once gets the ascendancy,
it reigns like a despot, and too soon the holy
feelings of the father were lost in the intoxicating bowl.
Poverty, with all its attendant ills, now came upon
the wretched wife. One by one the articles of her
little menage were taken from her by Reuben, to satisfy
the cravings of appetite, and with her babe she
was at last forced to leave the cottage where her early
days of married life so blissfully flew by, and seek
shelter from the winds of heaven in a miserable hut,
which only misery might tenant. The unfortunate
find few friends, and over the threshold of poverty
new ones seldom pass, and therefore it was that
Emma was soon neglected and forgotten. There were
some, it is true, who regarded her with pity and kindness,
but there were also very many who pointed the
finger of derision at the drunkard's wife—innocent
sufferer for her husband's vices! At length the babe
fell ill. It died, and poor, poor Emma, pale, disconsolate,
knelt by the little cradle alone; no sympathizing
hand wiped the tear from her eye; no kind word
soothed her lacerated bosom; the earthly friend that
was not at her side, but revelling in scenes of low
debauchery.
That night was marked by a storm of terrific violence.
The rain poured in torrents; dreadful thunder
rent the heavens, the whirlwinds uplifted even the
largest trees, while the incessant flashing of the lightning
only added tenfold horrors to the scene. But
the bereaved mother, the forsaken wife heeded it not;
with her cheek pressed against the scarce colder one
of her dead babe, she remained for hours totally unconscious
of the wild war of the elements—for more
complete desolation reigned in her heart. At length
the door opened and Reuben entered. With an oath,
he was about to throw himself upon the straw pallet,
when his eye casually fell upon the pale, marble-like
face of the little babe. His senses, stupified as they
were, aroused at the sight.
“What ails the child?” he muttered.
“Reuben, our darling babe is dead!” replied Emma,
lifting her pallid features to the bloated gaze of
her husband. Then rising from her knees, she approached
him and led him to look upon the placid
countenance of their first born.
We will not dwell upon the scene; remorse and
grief stirred the heart of Reuben almost to madness.
On his knees he implored forgiveness of his much
injured wife; he swore a solemn oath, that never
again would he swerve from the path of sobriety, but
that years of penitence and affection should atone for
his past abuse of life and love.
The day came for the funeral. Reuben had promised
his wife that he would not again leave the house
until the remains of their babe had been given to the
earth; he intended to keep his promise, but as the
day wore on the insatiable cries of habit tempted him
away. Only one glass, he thought—but another followed—and
then another, until alike forgetful of himself
and his unhappy wife, he soon became grossly
intoxicated.
In the mean while a few of the neighbours had assembled;
the clergyman, too, had arrived, and the funeral
rites were only delayed by the absence of Reuben.
Minutes wore on.
“He will not come,” whispered one. “Ah, it is
easy to guess where he is,” added another, and looks
of pity were turned upon the heart-stricken mother,
her grief and shame. The clergyman at length approaching
the mourner, in a low tone demanded if
the ceremony should proceed.
“Has he come?” eagerly inquired Emma.
The clergyman shook his head.
“O wait, wait, he will be here, he promised me.
O yes he will come!”
But another half hour rolled on, and still Reuben
came not. The neighbours now moved to depart, when
rising from her seat, her pallid countenance betokening
the agony of her heart, Emma signified her assent
that the solemn rites should proceed. But suddenly
in the midst of that earnest prayer for comfort and
support to the afflicted mother, a loud shout was heard,
and Reuben was seen staggering towards the hut.
With a brutal oath he burst into the room, but happily
for poor Emma, she saw him not, the first sound
of his voice had deprived her of consciousness, and
she was placed fainting on the bed. Reuben was
overpowered and dragged from the hut—the funeral
service ended, and leaving the unconscious mother in
the care of a few compassionate neighbours, the little
procession wound its way to the church-yard
It was nearly a year after this sad scene, that one
evening a stranger alighted from the stage at the Inn,
announcing his intention to remain there for the night.
Entering the bar-room (for it was before the health-establishment
of the temperance law) he ordered a
glass of brandy, which he was about to carry to his
Reuben Fairfield, who now without the means to allay
the death-worn upon his vitals, was stretched
upon a bench at one end of the room.
“I say, neighbour, you look thirsty,” ejaculated the
stranger in a gay tone. “Here, take this, for faith
thou hast a lean and hungry look.”
Eagerly seizing it, Reuben drained the contents of
the glass to the bottom, and for a moment the worm
was appeased! The stranger now made some casual
remark, to which Reuben replied in language so well
chosen, and evidently so far above his apparent station
in life, that the former was astonished, and by
degrees a lively conversation took place between
them, during which Reuben more than once partook
of the young man's mistaken kindness. While conversing,
the stranger several times drew from his
pocket a handsome gold watch, and the chink of silver
fell upon the famished ears of Reuben with startling
clearness. Apparently with that feeling of ennui
which so often seizes upon the solitary traveller, the
stranger now strolled from the bar-room into the hall,
a door leading into a room opposite was open, and
sounds of loud merriment attracted his eyes in that
direction. A company of young men were playing
at cards—without ceremony he entered, and, advancing
to the table, appeared to watch the game with
some interest. He was invited to join them, and, after
some hesitation accepted.
Reuben had followed the young man into the room,
and now eagerly watched the pile of silver, and an
would seem, the stranger displayed. The evening
wore away, and with a promise from Reuben that he
would awaken him betimes to visit a singular cave in
the neighbourhood, the stranger retired to rest. Not
so Reuben. A fiendish plot entered his brain—that
money must be his—and even at that moment when
robbery, perhaps murder, was at his heart, he dared
to think of the pure-minded, innocent Emma as a
sharer of his ill-gotten wealth! All night he paced
the dark forest contiguous to his abode, where long
after midnight the feeble lamp shone upon the haggard
features of the once lovely girl as she strove
with trembling fingers to render the apparel of the
inebriate decent for the morrow.
As the day was breaking, Reuben passed softly
into the cottage, for he knew that Emma now slept,
approaching the bedside, something like a shade of
pity stole over his countenance. She smiled in her
sleep and called upon his name—this was too much
for the miserable man. Hastily opening a table drawer,
he drew forth a sharp knife which he concealed
beneath his coat, muttering as he did so—“I may
need it,” and then without daring to cast his eye
again toward the bed, left the house and proceeded to
the inn, where the stranger already awaited his arrival.
With each point of view as they proceeded on their
route the latter expressed himself delighted, particularly
as his guide, too, endeavoured to give interest to
every scene by the relation of some anecdote or history
attached. At length they reached the neighbourhood
so gently along, reflecting the varied hues of autumn
in its trauslucent depths, now suddenly changed
its course, and leaping over a precipice some thirty
feet in height, pursued its way for some distance between
huge masses of shelving rocks crowned on
either side by dark gloomy forests. After a laborious
descent they arrived at the mouth of the cave, situated
about mid-way down the bank. Reuben entered
first, and the stranger was about to follow, when turning
suddenly upon him with a blow of giant strength,
hurled him from the precipice, and he fell senseless
upon the jagged rocks below! Leaping quickly
down, Reuben now rifled the pockets of the unfortunate
man of both money and watch, and then drew
him, still breathing, up the ragged cliff and far into
the cave. More than once as he saw life yet stirred
in the limbs of his victim, his hand was upon the
knife—but he drew it not forth!
Covering the body with fragments of rock and under-wood,
he left the hapless man to his fate, certain
that even if consciousness returned, his efforts to extricate
himself from the mass would be unavailing, and
as he had taken the precaution also to closely bind his
mouth, he could utter no cry for assistance.
Returning now to the village, he boldly entered
the inn, and stating to the landlord that the stranger
had been tempted by the fineness of the morning to
pursue his journey a few miles on foot, proceeded to
hand him a sum of money which he said he had
charged him to deliver as equivalent to the amount
reasonable and no questions were asked. But ere the
day was over, some boys who had strayed in the vicinity
of the cave, came running home pale and frightened,
declaring they had heard dreadful groans issue
thence, and that many of the rocks around were stained
with blood! Immediately every eye was turned to
the spot where a moment before Reuben Fairfield had
been standing, and although no one spoke, probably
the same terrible conviction flashed through the mind
of each; but guilt is always cowardly. Reuben had
already disappeared.
A party of villagers immediately set forth to search
the cave. The result may be imagined—the stranger
was discovered still alive, although but for this timely
aid, a few hours would doubtless have determined his
fate. Reuben attempted to make his escape, but was
soon overtaken and delivered up to justice—found
guilty, and sentenced to ten years' hard labour in the
State Prison!
This sad history I learned from my friend; and
now poor Emma had come back to die! Come back
to that home she had left with so many bright visions
of happiness before her, a heart-broken, wretched being.
It was not long ere from the same little gate,
whence but a few years before I had seen her led a
happy blooming bride, I saw her coffin borne to the
still graveyard!
“Ah!” thought I, as the hot tears gathered, “thou
art but another victim at the shrine of Intemperance!”
Rest thee in peace, poor Emma!
| The fountain and the bottle | |