University of Virginia Library

A SINGLE GLASS OF WINE.

By Mrs. R. S. Harvey.

“I wouldn't marry an awkward man, or one who
has a stoop in the shoulders, would you, Charlotte?”
said the lively Sarah Cunningham, as a small party
of young ladies lingered over the dessert in Mr. Cunningham's
dining-room. “I don't think it likely I
shall ever marry,” said Charlotte Ludlow, demurely
placing a nut between the nut-crackers. “Oh no, of
course not,” returned the first speaker, “like all

proper young ladies, we all expect to be grave and
sorrowful old maids; but suppose such a thing were
to happen; wouldn't you like your husband to be
tall and noble looking, so that you could look up to
him admiringly?” “No, I don't think I care much
for personal appearance; but I should like him to be
wise as Socrates, and eloquent as Cicero.” “And
what would you like, sister Julia?” said the youngest
of the party, addressing one whose earnest eye betokened
a mind intelligent and reflecting beyond the
others. “I should have no objection to personal
beauty or brilliant talents, certainly,” replied Julia
Cunningham, with a smile; “but oh,” she added, in
a more serious tone, “I could not love one that I did
not believe beyond the dominion of any vice.” “Vice!
why how came you to think of such a thing?” asked
Sarah inquiringly. “Who'd dream of marrying a
vicious man?” “None of us, I'm sure,” replied her
sister; “but the thought was suggested by passing
a person in the street this morning, of genteel appearance,
and so dreadfully intoxicated—I crossed the
street with an involuntary shudder—but, as I turned
away, I sighed to think, that perhaps some wife had
once loved him, some sister had had pride in him.”
“Once loved him!” repeated Charlotte; “why, if she
once loved him, she must love him yet; you know,
the old song says—

“Songs are not always the best authority, even in
love matters,” replied Julia; “for my part, I think I
could love through every test of feeling but that. I
could endure disappointment, grief, and toil—but
degradation—never!” “Well, if that's so shocking,”
said Sarah, quickly, “I'd better just tap William
Russell on the shoulder when I next see him indulging
in a glass of wine. There's no knowing what
might come of it.” A laugh all round followed this
sally, and Julia replied, smiling, “Don't give yourself
the trouble, sister dear, it would not be worth
while to trust one with aught else, that could not be
trusted to take a glass of wine.” A lively bantering
on the theme of William Russell now commenced, and
Sarah declared that he was to be the happy man from
four inferences which she was ready to demonstrate;
and the mirth was ringing some lively peals when
Julia interposed—“Hush, you noisy ones; papa is
taking his after-dinner nap in the next room, and it is
the only indulgence, you know, which dear papa ever
allows himself.” “I wish papa would get rich,” said
Sarah, with a half sigh, “then he needn't wear himself
out so in this everlasting business!” “I don't see
much chance of that,” returned Julia, “while business
is so dull, and there are so many birds in the
nest which papa has to keep warm and comfortable.”
“Then suppose some of us take a fly,” said Sarah;
“you are the oldest, why don't you begin?” This
renewed the easily-excited laughter, for youth waits
not for real wit to provoke the smile; and Julia,
shaking her finger admonishingly, arose to summon

the servant to remove the things. A promenade was
now arranged by the rest of the party, who ran rapidly
up stairs for the bonnets and the mantles, and Julia,
entering the room where her father was sleeping,
softly arranged the window curtain that the light
might not fall upon his face. She then gathered up
the music which had been littered about, and placed
it neatly in the music-rack: restored the room to its
wonted orderly appearance, and, drawing her workstand
to the window, took up her needlework and
commenced sewing steadily. As she worked, some
sweet thought which had nestled in her heart expanded
itself upon her expressive face. First the
dark eye lightened with a brilliant animation, and the
lips parted in a happy smile—but then came an expression
of softened grief, and tears sprang to her
eyes.

Julia Cunningham was the eldest of a large and
lovely family, and both parents had ever turned to
her in the vicissitudes of their earthly career, as a
solace, and, in some sense, a support. Mrs Cunningham,
a woman of gentle and retiring spirit, feeble in
health, and worn down by the cares of a numerous
household, had gradually assigned to Julia a place
better becoming the head of a family, and had delighted
to find refuge in her energy and promptitude
from those petty and harassing cares which follow in
the train of a large family and straitened means; and
Mr. Cunningham, suddenly plunged from apparent
affluence into a long and weary struggle with embarrassed
circumstances, had found, in his intelligent

and thoughtful daughter, one always ready to listen
to his plans—to sympathize in his disappointments,
and to inspire the heart anew with the sweet encouragements
of hope. And Julia's was not a passive
sympathy with either parent. Most people in their
station of life thought it necessary to keep two or
three domestics, but Julia arose early to arrange the
breakfast-room, and see that all was comfortable for
her father's early meal; and then she was always
ready for the nursery, helping mamma with the little
ones, so that the Cunninghams were always neat and
orderly with but one servant. Dearly, too, as she
loved the indulgence of her own refined tastes, which
her parents had spared no pains to cultivate with
their then ample means, she was always ready to lay
aside the book, and put up the drawing to instruct
a little brother or sister who was too young to go to
school; and when new clothes were to be provided,
and seasonable arrangements made, none made the
purse hold out so well as Julia, and no fingers flew so
fast as hers in the domestic manufactory. What
wonder, then, that the parents sighed, as well as
smiled, at beholding not a few of the other sex ready
to lay the heart offering on the shrine of their fair
daughter! What wonder, while they watched with
anxious solicitude the choice that would bind up her
earthly destinies, they talked pensively to each other
of the blank that would follow in their household!
“I cannot see any reason for haste in the matter,”
said Mr. Cunningham to his wife, as they stole away
from the parlour to indulge in an hour of sober chat
in their own apartment. “Hard as you toil and strive
for them, my dear, I think you will never see reason
to be in haste to part with any of your daughters,”
replied Mrs. Cunningham. “But Julia is only twenty,
and I don't wish any of them to marry before twenty-five;
that's young enough, in my opinion.” “Well,
dear, the hurry is this:—William Russell is going to
the South to commence a new business, and he is
afraid of losing the treasure he covets. Mr. Graves
proposed last evening, and was refused, and William,
with a lover's watchfulness, suspects the truth, and
suspects, moreover, that yet another is ready, and
that's why, he told me this morning, he so urges the
matter.” “Well, I will not consent to his taking her
away, while he is uncertain as to his own success,
and permanent establishment. Let him try it a year,
and then there will be a better certainty for her.”
“No doubt there would,” replied his wife; “I think
you are very right; but you prefer William Russell,
do you not, to any of her admirers?” “Yes, I certainly
do. William has struggled with the world,
and knows what it is; has long provided for a mother
and sisters, even before his prodigal father was taken
away, and I regard his character as so fixed, that I
would sooner trust my child to his care than to any
other's. Yet I have never seen a man I think worthy
of Julia!” “Nor ever would,” said his wife, smiling,
“should you live a hundred years! and, indeed, I do
not know how we shall do without her. Sarah, and
Emma, and all are good girls, but they are not Julia.”
Just so thought William Russell, as most reluctantly
he subscribed to Mr. Cunningham's condition, and
wended his way without the companion he had hoped
would render it interesting. But the year, like other
years, rolled its steady round, and was gathered to its
progenitors beyond the flood; and the stated time had
come, and a few, but valued friends, assembled at
Mr. Cunningham's mansion to celebrate the happy
day. Strange, that so many tears should fall upon
a happy day! strange, that so many serious faces
should be seen in that cheerful home upon a happy
day! The parents looked grave, and even sad—the
bright, gay Sarah drenched her blonde with tears as
the ceremony proceeded, and even the little ones felt
that there was something in the scene more solemn
than they could penetrate, as the vow was spoken, to
be faithful, loving until death. Julia had struggled
nobly to preserve the usual composure of her manner—had
kept down the choking heart, while her mother
and sisters sobbed farewell; but on the bosom of
her father she wept so long and passionately, that the
bridegroom playfully remonstrated, and with gentle
force urged her to the carriage which was to convey
them away. Strange anomaly of human nature! As
the rapid movement hid the gaze of loving faces from
her view, she felt with the husband for whom she had
chosen to leave all sitting by her side, almost desolate

The parents of Julia Cunningham had concurred
in her choice, because they believed that the fine person
and engaging manners of Russell were united to
a character beyond the power of circumstances to
change; and every possible support had been given

to this opinion, in all the years that he had mingled
as a man among his fellows. The fact of having a
mother and sisters depending on his exertions, had
poised the natural buoyancy of his temperament with
thoughtfulness and consideration: and straitened circumstances
had rendered it necessary to deny himself
the indulgence of society. Now, his position was
greatly altered. His mother had been removed by
death—his sisters well provided for by opulent husbands—his
business was rapidly increasing, and with
no wants to provide for but his young wife's with her
domestic habits, William felt that his burden was a
light one. The society into which they were thrown
was a hospitable, and rather convivial one, and in the
admiration his beautiful and intelligent Julia excited,
the husband experienced a new source of delight,
and felt little inclined to limit any indulgence from
which she might derive gratification.

And thus are the avenues to temptation thrown
open! In the hours of ease and indulgence, in the
garb of brightness and beauty, the bosom's foe assails
us, and well for those who waken to resistance, before
the ruin is complete! Strong in the undoubting confidence
of youth, Julia feared no evil; and three
years had flown away so pleasantly, she scarcely
knew them gone. Each year she had passed a few
weeks under the paternal roof, and the rejoicing parents
united in the belief, that their daughter's wedded
life was all that could be desired. A change was,
however, approaching! and William Russell informed
his wife, that the tide was setting against him. Business

falling off, losses here and there, had made a
serious diminution in their income, and he thought
they would try to live more economically. “Certainly,”
said Julia, readily, “I remember well how
papa retrenched his family expenses, and it all came
right again; and he is so prosperous now.” “But I
am sorry you should go over again for me,” said the
husband in a dissatisfied tone, “the painful lessons of
your youth.” “They were not painful,” replied Julia,
cheerfully; “I never was happier in all my life, than
when, by some alteration or contrivance, I saved papa
a new expense.” “I am no admirer of small savings,”
said William, with a faint smile. “Then suppose
we save a large sum, right out,” returned Julia animatedly.
“If we decline Judge Hastings's party to
night, and attend no more large ones this fall, we shall
not need to give our own annual entertainment in the
winter, and that will save a heap of money, and a
world of trouble.” “Oh, that is looking too far ahead;
besides, we must go to-night, for I am anxious to see
a friend whom I promised to meet there; it will do us
good, too, Julia; I want cheering up.” Julia thought
she had never seen her husband less cheerful, than
when they returned from the brilliant festivity. He
seemed so flushed, so feverish and weary, and she
wished—she scarcely knew why—that he would attend
no more parties. A few days after this, a letter
was received by Mr. Russell, imparting the melancholy
intelligence of the very sudden death of Mrs.
Cunningham. He broke the news to Julia as tenderly
as possible, and her father wrote almost immediately,
entreating her to come to him, for some time,
in this hour of his desolation. “And how long will
you stay?” said William, as Julia completed her
mournful preparation for the journey. “I ought to
remain, dear William, at least three months,” she replied.
“They will need me now so much!” “Three
months is a long time,” said the husband, “but I must
try to do without you!” When Julia returned, she
found things getting worse rather than better, with
her husband; and notwithstanding she practised every
possible self-denial for herself, and extended it to their
household in every way that he would permit, the
cloud gathered strength rather than dispersed. There
was an alteration in him, too, which occasioned her
deep anxiety. So uncertain and fitful in spirits, so
careless in management, so easily irritated. She
could not understand it, and she sought the reason
in the trials of his business, in the loss of quiet, in the
failure of health, in every cause but the right one.
Some days passed on, and a card of invitation was
sent, for another gay party. Julia handed it to her
husband, and asked if he would write an apology.
“Why not go?” he said, inquiringly. “My black
dress is a sufficient excuse, if I needed one,” she replied,
with a tear, “but I do not; Mrs. Everett will
not expect me.” “Well, I will look in a little while,
perhaps,” said William, “and I can explain.”

The evening came, and, saying he would return
early, as she did not accompany him, William Russell
left his wife to a solitary evening. While she sat
plying her needle, her thoughts wandered to her

youthful home, her doating father, her affectionate
sisters; and while she paid a new tribute of grief to the
memory of the beloved mother so lately taken from her,
she felt that that home, even now, in its bereaved hour,
possessed the elements of a quiet comfort, of which
her own was destitute. The needle became a dangerous
companion, and she took up a book; but it
failed to rivet her attention. She looked at her watch:
it was past eleven, and she became uneasy and apprehensive.
Twelve, one, and two followed slowly, and
she walked the floor to still the feverish beating of
her heart. “He would not be so late at the Everetts:
something has happened: what, oh, what can it be!”
At length came three o'clock, and with it came the
footstep it was always joy to hear. But it was not
like his, it was so heavy, so uncertain. She paused a
moment in dreadful doubt, and then sprang to meet
him. He staggered past her, and flung himself into
a chair. She followed him, and clasping his arm
wildly, almost shrieked, “Tell me, William Russell,
tell me, husband, what is the matter?” “Leave me,
woman,” he cried, in a voice of thunder, with a brow
black as the midnight sky; “isn't there enough the
matter, without being tormented with your foolish
questions?” and flinging off his coat, he gained the
bed, and throwing himself down, was soon in a stupified
slumber, unconscious that the tears of his wife
were pouring on his face like rain. Well was it for
Julia Russell that she had obeyed the wise man's injunction,
to “Remember her Creator in the days of
her youth,” else where could her crushed and broken
heart, cast off by its dearest earthly refuge, have
made its appeal? Well was it for her, in this hour
of abandonment by him she had so loved and trusted,
that she could still stay herself on “the everlasting
arm.” In prayers and tears poor Julia passed that
night, and when the morning dawned, and her
wretched husband returned to consciousness, the
swollen eye and the pale cheek awoke his tenderness
and his remorse. In deep humility he acknowledged
all his fatal indulgences, and promised—ah! the spider's
thread on which that promise hung—to give up
all, if his injured wife would restore him her confidence
and love. And she! did she turn scornfully
away, with the assurance that she could not link herself
to degradation? Ah, no! for the degraded was
precious, even as her own soul. In broken tones, she
prayed him to remember his weakness, that he might
gather strength to resist the enticing cup; begged
him to settle his affairs, that they might no longer
urge him to temptation: that if a crust alone was left,
she would eat it cheerfully with him, and toil with all
her powers for their support, so that he would be again
her blessed William Russell.

Years have passed since then, and Mr. Russell, so
influenced, so guarded, never became a confirmed inebriate;
yet a moral strength is wanting to break for
ever the fatal snare; and could you see Julia Cunningham
now, my fair young reader—her finely
rounded form so thin and wasted; her brilliant eyes
shaded with unceasing anxiety; her step tremulous
with sad foreboding when absence is too lengthened,

you would shrink with dread when you behold the
beloved of your heart lift to his lips a single glass
of wine.

The foregoing tale illustrates the immense importance
of guarding against the small beginnings of intemperance.
From indulgence in a single glass of
wine, many weak-minded persons have been led on,
step by step, to their ruin. We knew one gentleman
of large fortune, who thus acquired so strong a taste
for Champaigne wine, that he actually indulged in
solitary drinking of this noxious beverage until it
killed him.