The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
 |
|
CHARLES CLIFFORD. |
|
 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
CHARLES CLIFFORD.
By D. Strock, Jr.
Travellers tell us of a serpent which hides among
the sands of the Eastern desert, and bites the weary
limbs of him who approaches the fountain to slake
his thirst. Intoxication is such a serpent. It lurks
in the paths of usefulness and honour, and stings,
with its envenomed fang, the youth who, with heart
bounding with hope, is beginning to tread the arena
of life. Our story is a tale of one of these victims.
One cold evening in November, a young man,
named Charles Clifford, sat alone in a small room of
a house in Philadelphia. The furniture and tasteful
decorations showed that it was the abode of luxury;
while the masses of books piled upon the shelf, and
strewing a table near which he sat, told that the
young man could appreciate the higher sources of
pleasure, which too many of the wealthy neglect.
Clifford was, in every sense of the term, a student.
A college life had merely developed his love of knowledge;
and, since returning home, he had applied
himself to study with the ardour of one inspired by
true genius. Young, accomplished, and wealthy,
them almost entirely, that he might pursue his favourite
studies alone.
He was engaged in these during the evening of
which we have spoken. The subject seemed difficult
and important. Sometimes he carefully turned over
the leaves of a heavy folio, bound in thick leather,
with massy clasps; then he compared one or two passages
in it with some in other volumes, or traced, with
a rapid hand, his thoughts upon paper; and at times
he arose, and, folding his arms, walked slowly over
the floor.
A loud knock at the door interrupted him. The
servant announced Mr. Greene.
Robert Greene had been a student at the college
with Clifford. His appearance and manners were of
the class which excite involuntary disgust, when beheld
for the first time. The cadaverous countenance,
almost buried in hair, an eye, whose clouded and
sickly colour told that the system had been ruined by
abuse, and an assumption of affability in voice and
gestures, were too conspicuous to pass unnoticed, even
by the dullest observer. He was somewhat older than
Clifford, and they had been in the same class at college.
They had conversed together, studied together,
passed much time together; yet they had never been
real friends. There was no similarity in character
which might unite the affections of the two hearts
into one. During the year that had elapsed since
leaving college, they had met only occasionally, and
in the street. Their acquaintance was about to be
said—
“Still at your books, Charley? Study, study night
and day, as though college lasted for a lifetime,
without holiday. Are you writing a history of the
world, or learning to simplify the Chinese grammar?”
“Neither,” answered the other. “I study because
I find pleasure in studying.”
“Pleasure! Well, Charley, that beats all yet. You
used to say funny things at college, but nothing
equal to that. And do you enjoy such pleasure every
night?”
“I do not often go out,” replied Clifford.
“But you can go with me to-night,” said his visiter.
“A few of us college chaps are about to have a little
social fun to ourselves—that is, in plain terms, a supper.
There will be fine eating, finer drinking, and
no scarcity of chatting and singing. We concluded
we could not do without you, so you must give up
the pleasures of study for one night. It will be rare
sport.”
“I shall ask to decline,” answered Clifford.
“We will hear of no declining. Do you not wish
to keep alive old acquaintances?”
“But I am very busy this evening. Besides, I
never go to evening suppers.”
“Not conscientious, I hope,” said Greene, with a
chuckling laugh.
Clifford answered that he was not.
“Then you must come. As to your objection of
rarely going out, I remember seeing a young man
church last Sunday evening—in company, too. The
cool, clear air seemed quite refreshing to him.”
During the greater part of this conversation, Clifford
had appeared listless as one in a revery. The
last sentence roused him. He looked at Greene with
a keen and half irritated gaze, as though he would
read the thoughts of which these half bantering
words were an index. Greene, discovering this,
changed his tone and continued—
“Come, Charley, we want you with us. You will
see more there than you are aware of. Many whom
you will be glad to take by the hand, are this moment
waiting to greet you. It will be mortifying, indeed,
if you are so ungenerous as to refuse, after receiving
a formal invitation.”
Clifford was overcome by these words, urged in
a persuasive tone. Notwithstanding his studious
habits, he had always been fond of company; and the
singular invitation which Greene had extended to
him made him suspect that there might be, in this
evening party, more than at first appeared. It must
be added, also, that his main defect of character was
timidity, which led him to yield obedience to others,
even when his judgment opposed such concession.
Such was the case in the present instance.
The supper was held in a hall which Greene's
friends had rented for the occasion. At entering,
Clifford was greeted with a round of applause, for
many there were sincerely glad to see him. Amid
the flow of voices, the hilarity of those who had once
occasional song, Clifford forgot his studies, and
mingled freely with his companions. During the
entertainment wine was introduced.
“Now, Clifford,” said a young man named Reed,
“you and I will drink each other's health. Fill your
glass.” Clifford shook his head, saying that he never
drank wine.
“Never drink wine!” exclaimed Reed, as a number
of eyes turned towards Clifford, “Never drink
wine! You are not a tee-totaller, I hope.”
“No,” he replied—but the blood mounted to his
cheek, on seeing that he had become an object of
wonder to his companions.
“But you must drink to night for company's sake,
Reed answered. “We shall be offended if you refuse.”
Clifford shook his head. Many voices urged him,
some in a pleasant tone, others with suppressed contempt.
This time, however, the young man appeared
firm in his refusal; for from conscientious motives he
had, since leaving college, abstained from the use of
wine. But at this moment Greene exclaimed, in an
ironical tone,
“Don't force him to commit wrong. He's afraid
that he'll get drunk.” A shout of laughter from
many of the half intoxicated group followed. Clifford's
firmness gave way. He raised the glass, and
drained it to the bottom. Loud acclamations rose
from every side; and before they subsided, the young
man had emptied another glass and another. It is
intoxicated.
It was with trembling hand that Clifford applied,
that night, the dead-latch of his door. During his
walk home, the cool air had somewhat sobered him,
so that he felt ashamed and degraded. It being late,
all in the house were asleep. With as little noise as
possible he passed into his room, closed the door, and
throwing himself upon the bed, was soon asleep.
Before daylight, he awoke cold, sick, and with a violent
pain in the head. A few moments' reflection
brought before his memory, in vivid colours, the
scenes of the preceding evening. He shut his eyes
to the truth, he tried to believe it all a dream; he
arose and paced the floor, repeating with vehement
gestures,—“It cannot be—it cannot be.”
Sometimes he stopped suddenly, and raising his
clenched hands, he cursed the one who had led him
into temptation, and his own weakness which had
made him willing to yield. He longed for the appearance
of daylight when he might go into the open air.
The night seemed endless; and at last, though shivering
with cold, he sat down by the window, and
clasped his throbbing head in his hands. While
there, an hour passed away. It was one of those
hours of terrible agony, when a youth of generous
feelings, and hitherto unspotted character, feels, for the
first time, the consciousness of his own degradation.
The scene that morning at the breakfast-table of
Mrs. Clifford was a sad one. He who had hitherto
supplied the loss of the husband and father, was reserved
something unusual had occurred; none suspected
what it was. Clifford passed directly from the table
to his study. As this was his usual custom it excited
no suspicion; but when, after partaking of no
dinner, the afternoon wore away without his appearing,
the family became alarmed. Annette, his youngest
and favourite sister, stole silently to the door of
his room, where she paused to listen. No sound
came from it. She knocked; but still there was no
sound. With a convulsive effort, she pushed open
the door and entered. Her brother was sitting on a
chair by the window, with his arms folded, and his
chin sunk upon his breast. He appeared unconscious
of any thing around, and his eyes, swelled with inflammation,
were bent upon the floor. Annette, much
frightened, laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Brother, what is the matter?” she exclaimed.
Clifford started to his feet. Emotions of sorrow,
humiliation, and anger flitted across his face, and he
fixed his eye, in a manner that he had never done
before, on his sister. It was some moments before
the trembling girl could repeat her question.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Leave me—I want to
be alone.”
There was something in his tone which made her
shudder.
“Oh, brother,” she said, approaching and laying
her hand on his arm, “why do you speak so to me?
It is Annette, your own sister. I will soothe and
comfort you.”
“Leave me, Annette!” he exclaimed wildly. I
want no comforter. Who told you to interrupt me in
my own study?”
“Brother, brother!” she sobbed, clasping his arm
tighter; but he tore it from her grasp, and seizing his
hat, hurried out of the door and down the steps. She
heard the hall door open and close again.
There are those in society, noisy, talkative, and
eager to display all the talents, natural or acquired,
which they possess, who are, notwithstanding, slow
and undecisive in action. Fortunately, the same
traits of character which prevent them from advancing
in a good cause, keep them from any great degree of
depravity in a bad one. On the other hand, there are
a few who, silent, observant, and industrious, do much
in a little time, and who form the real support of the
cause in which they may be engaged. If right, their
influence is powerful for good; but if once they turn
into the path of evil, they rush to ruin headlong.
Charles Clifford was one of these. A few hours had
deranged the good habits of years. He was no longer
the calm and cheerful student that he had been the
day before. During the morning he had made repeated
attempts to study, but his mind seemed confused,
and a cold, sad feeling gathered round his
heart as he turned over the dull pages; and he seemed
still to be amid the revelry of the previous evening.
His conduct to the sister whom he tenderly loved
showed how wide was the chasm which the commission
of the first degrading act had thrown between his
present feelings and his former life.
After leaving his home, Clifford walked rapidly
along, sometimes crossing from one side to the other,
or turning into a cross street like one who wanders
at random. To abate, in some measure, the acuteness
of his feelings, he walked rapidly, and endeavoured
to drive from his mind the impression of the
last scene with his sister. He was unequal to such a
task. Her look, her tones of affection, the words that
she had used to soothe him, rose before his sight and
rang in his ears. In mental anguish, he pressed his
lips together, and hurried on with uneven step, until
the veins of his forehead swelled almost to bursting,
and strangers stared at him from the windows and
sidewalks. He could not shake off the memory of
Annette's words.
“Wretch that I am!” he at length exclaimed, half
aloud. “Oh, that I could live last night over!” He
paused, and turned as if to see where he was. The
air was cold, but he stood with folded arms for nearly
ten minutes, apparently lost in thought. He was interrupted
by feeling some one grasp his arm.
“Why, Clifford!” exclaimed a low voice, “are you
mad to night? I have followed you for a half hour,
and really no man in his senses could act more like a
madman than I have seen you do.”
“I'm a wretch!” the young man said, involuntarily.
“Nonsense. Don't you know me?”
“No! I have never seen you before! leave me.”
“Clifford,” said the other, half solemnly, “I hope
you are only joking. Surely you know the brother
of Mary Sanderson.'
`Is it you, Harry?” exclaimed Clifford, as the name
of her he loved fell on his ear. “Excuse me,” he
continued, clasping his hand. “I believe I am upside
down to night; but it was only for a moment,
while I was thinking about something. I was rude,
Harry—very rude.”
“I'll tell you what I think, Charley,” Sanderson
said, in his straight-forward manner. “Study is killing
you. You have wasted almost to a skeleton—
and take care that the waste of mind does not follow.
What good will it do you to know more than a whole
college of professors? Or, if it will do you good, be
generous enough to wait a little while until some of
us ignorant ones catch up with you.”
“What you say may be true,” returned Clifford;
“but—”
“But what?”
“I hardly know what I would say. Let us change
the subject.”
“Well, you must go with me to night, Charley.”
“Where?”
“Where do you suppose, if not to the house? Mary
will rejoice to see you.”
At any other moment Clifford would have lost no
time closing with this invitation. Now, a change
was upon him. He felt that degradation was written
upon his brow too plainly to escape observation. He
hesitated and was silent. Sanderson again invited
him.
“I must be excused to night,” he said, in a sad
tone.
“Well, this is strange!” exclaimed his friend. “Do
I speak with Charles Clifford, or not? But you must
come,” he continued, after a pause; and, placing his
friend's arm within his own, he drew him gently
along.
They were soon at Sanderson's house. The misery
depicted on Clifford's countenance was palpably visible
to blinder eyes than those of Harry's sister. Her
first salutation was an involuntary inquiry into the
cause of his unusual appearance. He returned
an evasive answer, but Sanderson exclaimed, suddenly—
“I found him wandering in the street in a brown-study,
telling nobody that he was a wretch. He is
either planning a tragedy, or going mad. So I concluded
to bring him where he might find a remedy.”
There was but one person to whom Clifford did
not seem an inexplicable problem. That one was
Mary Sanderson. She had learned to know and to
love him, and she, too, appeared to him as the bright
personification of the dreams of innocent loveliness,
which had occupied many an hour of his college days.
He had become acquainted with her through Harry,
and to her he devoted almost all the time spared from
study. Often, when fatigued with mental labour, he
repaired to her house, and found in her conversation
the relief which no mere amusement can afford.
Mutual esteem ripened into a holier feeling; and the
brother beheld with pride the affections of her whom
he was proud to call sister, concentrating upon one
so worthy of her.
With the quick feeling of intuition, Mary perceived
that something more than the effects of study ailed
Clifford. Hearts which have long been in unison
are skilled to detect the slightest cause for derangement.
In the haggard countenance, the shrinking
eye, the inconsistent replies, she read enough to alarm
and shock her. The interview was reserved and
painful. Harry, who entered towards its close, perceived
that something was the matter, greater than
he had at first anticipated. He inquired if his friend
was sick; to which Clifford replied that he did not
feel well.
“Shall I pour you out a glass of wine?” said
Harry.
It might be expected that the unhappy young
man would reject the offer almost with abhorrence.
In the morning this would have been the case; but
to the first powerful energy of wounded character
had succeeded a passive apathy—the recklessness of
despair, which rendered him careless even of evil.
He felt degraded—degraded, too, in the presence
of her who loved him to adoration. No depth of
misery now appeared low. Silently he accepted the
offered glass, and, nerving himself for the effort, drank
its contents in silence. He returned home an altered
man. The first step to ruin had already hurried him
a fearful distance down its broad path.
The wine drank in the presence of Mary Sanderson
had produced upon him an effect far different
from that of the evening previous. It seemed to remove
the weight of grief from his mind, and to inspire
with a buoyant step, and, on reaching his study, rang
for a servant. Though late at night, he demanded
wine; drank three or four glasses, and retired to bed
intoxicated!
One afternoon, about three weeks after this occurrence,
Clifford sat alone in the large parlour of his
mother's house. A fire was burning brightly in the
grate. In the short time we have mentioned, a
change had come over the members of this once
happy family. There was sadness on every brow;
but the true cause of this change had not yet been
discovered. On the above-named day, Clifford had
been alone since noon; about four o'clock, he was
interrupted by the entrance of Annette. Her face was
pale, but her red and swollen eyes showed that
she had been weeping. In her hand was a basket,
containing several fine oranges, of which her brother
was immoderately fond. She advanced towards him,
and said—
“I have brought these for you, Charles.”
He gazed at her for a moment with a look of deep
melancholy. Annette again offered the fruit.
“I do not want them, Annette,” he said.
“Shall I sing to you, brother?”
He shook his head.
“Will you go with me, this evening, to Miss Campbell's
party?”
Still he was silent.
“Then let me play on the piano for you. Oh,
brother, do not refuse me this.”
Tears started to the poor girl's eyes, as she thus
pleaded for the privilege of making another happy.
For a moment, Clifford's feelings were touched. He
longed to unburden his heart to her, but the transient
repentance passed away; for degradation had already
blunted his feelings, and rendered him selfish. In a
tone of impatience he replied that he did not want to
hear music. Annette placed her basket upon a table
and burst into tears.
“What is the matter?” he said, with cruel calmness.
She could not reply; but, burying her face in her
hands, she sobbed aloud. This was more than he
could bear. Ashamed of his behaviour, he seated himself
by her side, and attempted to soothe her injured
feelings. An hour of wretchedness followed, during
which Annette gradually recovered her self-possession.
Clifford spoke first.
“I will take these oranges to my study, sister.”
“I did not bring them as a present, Charles,” she
said calmly. “It was merely as a token of affection.
But you do not love me now as you did once.”
“Do not say so, Annette,” he replied, drawing her
closer to him, “you are still dear to me as ever.”
“Oh brother,” she answered, “if you knew what I
have suffered for more than two weeks, you would not
refuse the pledge of reconciliation which I brought
you.”
“Let us forget it, sister. The cause is with me,
but it shall exist no longer. You do not know all,
Annette—no, nor never will; but let us forget the
me.”
A glad smile illumined her features as she heard
these words, uttered in the kind tone of former days.
Charles, too, was happy. A sudden impulse of virtue
had made him confident of his ability to reform; so
that the gloom which had hung heavily around him,
all at once dissipated, the evening passed as though
the week had not been one of sorrow; and for several
days Charles abstained altogether from wine.
But the resolutions formed through impulse are
quickly broken. Only two weeks after Clifford had
resolved to abstain from wine, Annette sat alone in
the parlour waiting for her brother's return. It was
night, and her mother and sisters had retired to bed.
Until long after midnight she watched for him, sometimes
hurrying from room to room, at others listening
by the window to hear his footstep. A vague dread
of some unknown evil haunted her mind, and prevented
weariness or sleep. They who under like
circumstances have held their vigil hour after hour,
may tell how much the heart, on such occasions, endures.
But at length the fearful pause was broken.
The brother came, and Annette flew to meet him.
To her eager questions he returned some gruff unintelligible
reply; and shaking her hand from his
arm, stumbled into his sitting-room, which was on
the same floor as the parlour. In a short time all
was silent. Annette waited a few minutes, until sure
that he was not moving about the room. Then, with
as little noise as possible, she glided through the entry,
Charles had thrown himself upon a sofa and was
breathing heavily. The confined air was already
tainted with the odour of wine; and as Annette approached
and bent over him, the truth flashed upon
her mind. That moment afforded her an index to
the cause of her late wretchedness.
The sight of her brother, drunken, changed, degraded,
was a terrible blow to Annette. At first the
shock seemed overpowering; but she did not yield to
it. Woman sinks before little distresses; she braves,
with nerve of steel, calamities which seem overpowering.
Before she retired to her couch, Annette had
her brother's fall, and to attempt his reformation.
From that night she appeared cheerful and happy
as formerly, skilfully eluded all reference to his altered
appearance, and openly construed his momentary
fits of repentance into proofs of a disposition
still loving and affectionate. At the same time she
laboured with her brother to inspire his mind with
its former sense of honour and dignity. But an unlooked-for
accident defeated these efforts.
Clifford's downward course was, as we have said,
rapid. In a little more than two months he had imbibed
an intense thirst for ardent spirits, and had
often appeared in the streets intoxicated. On one of
these occasions he suddenly met face to face with his
friend Sanderson. To the latter, such a meeting imparted
a shock which he could scarcely sustain.
Grasping Clifford's hand, he looked earnestly in his
face and said,
“Where are you going, Charles?” Clifford's answer
was unintelligible. “Will you go to your house
with me?” continued Sanderson; for he dreaded lest
his friend might be recognized in the street. Clifford
replied with a volley of jests, songs and incoherent
exclamations. At length Sanderson succeeded
in conducting him, without much trouble, to Mrs.
Clifford's residence. He then disappeared, unwilling
to witness the meeting which would ensue at Clifford's
entrance. That meeting destroyed in a moment
Annette's hope of concealing her brother's
shame, and revealed to the widow, that her only son,
drunkard.
Perhaps no one felt this fact more keenly than did
Harry Sanderson. His personal esteem for Clifford,
the intimacy of their families, the relation which he
sustained to Mary, all tended to enhance this sympathy
for his friend. It will not appear strange, therefore,
that during his walk home, and during the remainder
of the evening, he thought over the painful
subject, with a view of devising some plan for his
friend's reformation. That the habit was a confined
one he did not doubt. It enabled him to explain
many circumstances in Clifford's conduct hitherto inexplicable;
but he had forgotten the fatal glass which
he had administered to his friend three months before.
At length, he determined not to reveal what
he had seen to Mary, but to invite Clifford to a personal
conference, at which he might frankly state the
incident of the preceding evening, and endeavour to
ascertain the feelings of his friend with regard to the
future.
The interview—a painful one—took place. Sanderson
stated, as delicately as he could, what he had
witnessed. He spoke some words about his friend's
condition only a few months previous—and now, how
altered! With shame and contrition, Clifford acknowledged
his fault. “Oh! does Mary know it?”
he added, in a tone of agony.
Sanderson shook his head.
“And she will not?” he inquired, with a look of
sorrow.
Sanderson was silent until the question was repeated.
Then he replied—
“Need I tell her, Charles? Will she not discover
it?”
“Harry,” said the young man, rising, and pacing
the floor, “why did you offer me that fatal glass of
wine?”
Sanderson started. As his friend walked backward
and forward, with every feature distorted by the intensity
of his feelings, the remembrance of the intimated
event flashed across his mind, and with it the
fearful consciousness that he had been an agent in
his friend's degradation. A long silence followed; at
the end of which Sanderson advanced towards his
friend, and, taking him by the hand, exclaimed—
“Charley, swear, before you leave the room, that
you will renounce wine for ever. I know you hate a
drunkard as much as I do. Make but a vigorous
effort, and you are safe.”
“I cannot,” replied Clifford; “it's useless to try.
The habit has, in three months, become a monster. I
am already old in misery.”
“Why, Clifford,” exclaimed his friend, “do not
give way to feeling in this manner. Remember you
are a man; remember your station in society, and
your hopes as a student. Meet the danger at once,
and conquer it.”
Clifford shook his head.
“Then promise to meet me again to-morrow
night,” continued Sanderson. His object was to afford
his friend time to reflect, and he succeeded. The
than he had entertained in the early part of the
evening.
We need not state that the following day was, to
Clifford, one of mental anguish. In the evening, he
repaired to the house of his friend. There they both
agreed to renounce, entirely, the use of wine, or any
intoxicating drink. The past was thrown to oblivion,
the future seemed to promise only years of prosperity.
One month after, Clifford was intoxicated!
And during this period, where was Mary Sanderson?
The shade which hung on the brow and the
heart of Clifford had darkened her own; and she had
already begun to feel the sorrow which wastes more
surely, because endured in secret. For several weeks,
mere casual circumstances—the tone of voice, a gesture,
or a glance, had revealed to her the change in
Clifford's character. Then followed proofs, at first
obstinately rejected, then endured with feelings which
found utterance only in tears; so that, even before
the fact was known to her brother, Mary was fully
apprised of it. She, like Annette, formed a resolution
that none should know it but herself; but the secret,
hidden in her bosom, gnawed upon its frail tenement,
until the flush of health fled from her cheek, her step
fell heavy and uncertain, and round her eye a dull
green shade gathered, which told that the mind itself
had grown sickly.
We would not repeat the oft-told tale of a drunkard's
course—of the tears shed over the memory of
departed worth; of the gentle ones, by necessity made
want, and shame, with affection which glows brighter
and holier as the dark vortex of sin draws him within
it; of the hopes departed, the hours clouded, the
wretched ones that, one by one, go down to the tomb,
unhonoured and unpitied, because they have been
related to the drunkard. Let us, reader, pass over
two years of such scenes, and behold one in which
the inebriate and his victim were brought together.
One day in the spring of 184-, a funeral procession
moved slowly from the city towards a small but beautiful
burying-ground, in a pleasant part of the country.
The air was chill, from a recent shower; and over the
face of the sky heavy clouds still hung in masses,
through which the sun darted only a few straggling
rays. The long line of black carriages dragged laboriously
through the half-frozen road; the silence—the
gloomy day, accorded well with the hour when all that
remains of departed friendship, is to be consigned to
the tomb. As they approached the village, near which
was the burial-place, some persons, touched by the
scene, opened their doors to gaze upon it; a few boys
threw stones at the muddy carriages; while from a
tavern, whose sign swung listlessly in the wind, two
miserable creatures issued, and joined in the procession
with mock solemnity, followed it to the graveyard.
In strange contrast to mourning wealth, they
walked over the damp sods, and stood with the company,
while a few words were spoken by a clergyman
over the grave. Before the coffin was lowered
into the grave, one of them again directed his steps to
at the other, thought they could detect in his countenance
an expression not inconsistent with the solemnities
to which they had been listening. The spirit
of better times seemed suddenly to gleam from his
bloated countenance.
In a few minutes the carriages, with their train of
mourners, had driven away. The chill air and the
damp earth had prevented even the relatives from remaining.
The sexton plied in silence his task of filling
the grave. The man who had followed the procession
was still there. For a time he watched the
motions of the spade without speaking. Then approaching
the sexton, he inquired the name of the one
who had been buried.
“Her name was Mary Sanderson,” said the gravedigger.
“Mary Sanderson!—not Sanderson?” said the
other.
“Yes, Sanderson. Why do you stare at me in that
wild manner?”
“And did you know her?”
“Yes; and a sweet girl she was. It is said she
broke her heart, poor thing! She loved one who deceived
her, and afterwards no one ever saw her smile.
Many a one who knew her, will be sad enough to hear
that she is gone.”
“But this is not Mary Sanderson's grave—is it?”
said the stranger.
“To be sure it is. Do you take me for a knave?”
The stranger tore the ragged sleeve of his coat, and
of hair, with a golden clasp. He held it towards the
sexton, and on the bright plate the latter read the
words, “Mary Sanderson.” The man started, and
asked where he got it.
“Do not ask me,” replied the other. “Will you
place the headstone over this grave?”
The sexton nodded assent.
“Then put this under it. I will not carry it to
mock and torture me. Let the pure one who gave it
to me, receive it from him who proved unworthy of
her gift. Remember, if you keep it, you will have to
answer to a Higher Power than yourself or me.” He
left the bracelet and disappeared.
It was Charles Clifford.
We have compared the effects of intoxication to the
sting of a serpent. May we not liken those who go
among the haunts of vice to rescue the helpless inebriate,
to those who pass their lives in the desert,
that they may relieve the weary and the wounded?
Clifford met with such. He became a member of the
order whose thousands are extending over our land,
and the world. He remained firm to their principles,
and was most active in their cause. But he never regained
his former cheerfulness. When seated in the
Division room, or in the society of his companions, a
shade of sorrow was often observed to pass across his
brow. Many thought that his health had been impaired;
but those who knew him best, believed, that
at such times he was thinking of his mother who had
ong since died, and of Mary Sanderson.
| The fountain and the bottle | |