University of Virginia Library

THE PLEDGE BY MOONLIGHT.

By Amerel.

There are scenes of but a few hours' duration
which foreshadow a whole life; and sometimes words
spoken carelessly, and in jest, are an index to years
of future misery or pain.

One evening a small boat, containing six persons,
was descending the Delaware. It was an excursion
for pleasure; and amid the soft influence of a summer's
moonlight evening, this party—young, gay, of
both sexes, and released, for a few hours, from the
cares of life, abandoned themselves to unrestrained
enjoyment. Many a merry song floated on the air,
as their boat glided on; and, at intervals, the wild
laugh of the heart which has thrown off its care, arose
while they listened to a story, or a well told anecdote.
Those usually timid or reserved felt at home;
and some of those choice spirits, who are the soul of
a social party, gave themselves to unrestrained enjoyment.

“Give us another song, Mary,” said one of them,
to the favourite songstress of the party. Do—just
one; something lively, and none of those that make
one feel as though he was in the land of darkness and
melancholy.”

Urged by the others, she complied, and sang a song
of her own composing, beginning with the words,—

All applauded this song except her brother. Feeling
mischievous, he said—

“Why, Mary—after all, this is a sad song. Every
note rings with the sad changes of life, among which
you wish us to pledge ourselves changeless. Give us
a really pleasant one.”

“I'll sing no more,” answered his sister.

“Do—just a little one.”

“Don't gratify him,” said a young man, named
Rubicon “If that song can't please him, none ever
will.”

“I like to hear about the changes of life,” said
another young man.

The others laughed at this apparently silly expression;
but, without heeding their mirth, the speaker
leaned upon his arm at one end of the boat, and
continued—

“I don't believe in the philosophy which would
teach us to sigh because we are older to day than we
were yesterday; or, forsooth, that we do not dream
about fairy-land, as we did at sixteen. Go ahead,
without looking behind, is my motto. I'll pledge a
glass of wine with any one here, that ten years from
to-night, if living, I'll be wiser, more contented, and
wealthier than I am now, leaving losses by accidents
out of the question.”

“What do you call accidents?” said Rubicon.

“Fire, freshet, thieves, and such like.”

“Better include life itself among them,” said
Mary's brother, named Morris.

“That's no accident,” replied the other. “You
are always turning things into ridicule, Morris. But
permit me to explain. I say, that if allowed to pursue
the even tenor of my way, for ten years, I will
be better, in all respects, than I am at present. Who'll
pledge with me?”

“All of us,” exclaimed the group, delighted at so
novel a proposition.

“Let's understand what we are going to do, Smith,”
said Rubicon. “Let each one wish for the greatest
good which he hopes to attain in ten years; and then
our pledge will be a kind of vow that we are resolved
to have it.”

“Agreed, agreed!” exclaimed the others. “Bring
out the wine.” Glasses and decanters were soon produced.

“Harriet must pledge first,” said Morris, handing
her the wine.

“I don't know what to say,” exclaimed the girl,
holding the glass in her hand, and laughing.

“Say any thing—tell us what you wish to be ten
years hence.”

“Well, I wish I was a fairy.”

There was a shout of merriment.

“You are spilling the wine in my boots,” Smith
said, dolefully.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Morris. “That's a fine
commencement for your project, Smith.”

“Come, pledge, Harriet; give us a sensible wish.”

“Haven't I?” said the gay girl. “I wish to be a
fairy ten years from this, and be no older than I am
now, and roam all day among sunshine and flowers,
and hear the little slave fairies singing round me, and
never have a shade of sorrow on my brow, and—”

“That's enough,” groaned Morris.

“Is that your pledge?” asked Smith.

“To be sure it is.”

“It won't be realized.”

“I don't care.”

“Well, you're a curious girl. Let's hear Miss
Southey's wish.”

She took the proffered glass, and, raising it to her
lips, said, “I wish for wealth. I pledge to night for
future affluence.”

“I was thinking about that myself, Alice,” said
Morris, laughing.

“Now for Mary's wish!” exclaimed Smith, rubbing
his hands.

“Excuse me,” she said, with evident embarrassment;
“I do not use wine.”

“Don't use wine!” cried Rubicon. “Why, what's
the matter, Mary?”

“Neither wine nor strong drink,” replied her brother,
“ever passes those pure lips. They are an
abomination to her. She's a Rechabite. It would
astonish you to hear her lecture against tavern-keepers
and rum-drinkers.”

“I do not lecture, brother,” Mary said.

“But you will pledge with us?” exclaimed Smith.

“Without drinking?”

“If you prefer doing so.”

“Well, I wish to be happy.”

“We all wish that, Mary. Try again.”

“I wish we all may be happy.”

“That's the same wish, multiplied by six. Try
again.”

There was a pause. The girl, still embarrassed,
appeared to be summoning courage for another effort.
In this interval, her brother leaned over to Smith, and
whispered, loud enough to be heard by all—

“You don't know how clear her intellect is when
she ain't on a batter.”

“Nonsense, Morris,” said his companion. “Do
quit your mischief.”

“I wish,” said Mary, “that we may all meet together
at the end of ten years, and be as happy as we
are now.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Morris. “Ain't that a
bright thought! Can't leave the happy off, you see.”

“I think it's a very good wish,” exclaimed Rubicon.
Smith said the same.

“Now for our pledges,” added the latter, offering
the glass to Rubicon.

“I wish,” said the young man, “to become the
first in my profession.” He was a lawyer.

“And a seat in Congress?” asked Morris.

“That may be included.”

“I wish,” said Morris, as the wine was offered to
him, “that I may always be as merry as I am now.”

“And laugh at people as you do now?” asked
Smith.

“Certainly. That's part of the wish.”

“It's a very bad one,” said Rubicon.

“Do not wish that, brother,” Mary said, laying her
hand on his shoulder.

“Well, for your sake, Mary, I will leave the laughing
out. Now Smith, for yours—it will be a grand
one, too.”

“I wish for success in business,” he replied, emptying
his glass.

“Why, that's the same as Rubicon's, only substituting
merchant for lawyer.

“It's the one I started with,” replied Smith, “and
the only one I intended to give. And now, as we are
all through, let us mark the wish, the day, and date,
in our journals when we get home, and look at it
every year, when the same day comes round.”

“A grand way to keep up old acquaintance,” answered
Rubicon.

“Why have none of you wished for a good wife?”
exclaimed Alice Southey.

“Because we can get one without wishing,” replied
Morris. There was a faint laugh.

“I wonder what the man in the moon would wish
if he saw us to-night,” said Smith.

“He would wish,” answered Rubicon, “that that
little party down there in the boat were not so deeply
under lunar influence.”

“I think he would wish,” said Mary, “that we
might not be disappointed in our wishes.”

Such, in substance, is a portion of the conversation
with which the little party beguiled the time as their
boat floated down the Delaware. It may be trifling
or silly—and how often is the conversation of young
persons, during a whole evening, supremely silly—
yet it at least originated in a solemn feeling—the desire
prevalent in every one's bosom, to catch a glimpse
of the future, and, if possible, read concerning what
is still to befall him in life. And may we crave the
reader's indulgence while, in a few words, we tell
how the wish of each was accomplished?

“The times of 1837” is an expression which, in
this country, conjures up to thousands of families,
spectacles of distress and ruin. During the four years
in which the great financial embarrassment continued,
merchants failed under heavy liabilities, professional
men were dismissed from office, wealthy men, of
long standing, became poor in a day, mechanics
roamed despairing from town to town, begging for
employment. Business and credit were equally
stagnated.

In the summer of 1840, during the great presidential
canvass, which signalized that year, a small steamboat
started from Philadelphia, having on board a
number of plainly dressed men, most of them mechanics.
Some held in their hands fishing lines, others
baskets, with various kinds of wares, and a few carried
bundles of the daily papers. One man, who had
evidently seen better days, stood with his arms folded,
looking out upon the river. He spake at intervals
with a friend who sat beside him. After the boat had
been out about half an hour, he turned to the other
and said—

“Twelve years ago, while on a sailing party, in this
same spot, I wished for success in business.”

“And with every prospect of success?” said his
friend.

“Yes; I was sure of it—too sure. And see what
I am to-day.”

Other words of conversation followed. Two or three
men who sat near, overheard them, and appeared to
listen. Both the speakers resumed their silence, and

the boat moved on. At length the man who had
first spoken, passed to another quarter of the boat,
and, seating himself, began to arrange some fishing
tackle.

At that moment, a man, whose countenance exhibited
fine intellectual features, though evidently
abused by indulgence in drinking, approached, and
sat down beside him.

“Is your name Smith?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes, sir.”

“Mine is Rubicon.”

The man dropped his lines. “John Rubicon?” he
inquired, with a wild expression of countenance.

“Yes,” replied the other, seizing the proffered hand.
“I am one of those who pledged their wishes with
you, twelve years ago.”

“And is Morris still living?” Smith asked.

“No; he died miserably, in an almshouse.”

“Poor fellow! He was a merry soul. I loved to
hear his loud laugh, although he used to ridicule me.
Every body seemed to like him, although he joked at
the expense of all. What caused his death?”

“Drinking rum. He became so low as to associate
with the vilest loafers, and to lie all night in alleys
or gutters.”

“Poor Mary!” answered Smith; “it must grieve
her sadly.”

“It don't grieve her now,” replied Rubicon. “She
was buried four years ago. If there be any truth in
people dying with broken hearts, she died with one.
It was not her own fault, poor thing.”

“She was a sweet girl,” said Smith, with a sigh.
“So harmless, too. I used to think if any one was
ever sent to this world to make others happy, it was
she.”

“Do you remember her wish?” asked Rubicon.

“I remember it. It has not been accomplished.”

“What a wild girl Harriet was!”

“Yes; I remember, she wished to be a fairy. Do
you know what became of her?”

“She married a worthless sot. Her disposition, you
know, was not like Mary's. The two quarreled, and
at length parted. Harriet, herself, began to drink
hard. Indeed, she had always been too fond of wine.
She became a loathsome object, and at last died of
typhus fever—so the physician said. I never heard
what became of her husband.”

“And do you know any thing about Alice
Southey?”

A strange expression of mingled grief and remorse
passed over Rubicon's countenance. He paused,
hesitated, and turned pale. Smith almost involuntarily
repeated his question.

“She was my wife, George.”

There was a silence of many minutes. Smith spoke
first.

“So we two only are left of all that gay evening
party. Even we are changed, John.”

“I am,” replied Rubicon, bitterly. “For six years
I struggled—struggled manfully for eminence in my
profession. It was vain. All my plans and exertions
were frustrated. A viper had twined around my existence,

which paralyzed my arm, and poisoned my
hopes. It was the wine cup, Smith, the wine cup!
Ah! if I had wished to be delivered from it, and kept
my wish!”

“But you have reformed?”

“Do not mock me, Smith. To-day I have reformed,
and yesterday, because my last cent is gone. I could
tell you that would make you pity me.”

“And why don't you reform?”

“Ask the Delaware why it still flows onward.”

“Listen, my friend,” said Smith. “I, too, was a
drunkard, even to the last stage of drunkenness. I
felt in despair, as you do. One night I went to a
meeting of the Washingtonians. Many told how they
had reformed, and, at last, I know not how, I stepped
forward and signed the pledge. `Fool,' I said to my
self, as I went out, `you will break it to-morrow morning.'
I have kept it faithfully until this day. The
Washingtonians aided me to get work, and, until
lately, I made a comfortable living, even during these
hard times. Let me entreat you, Rubicon, to sign
the tee-total pledge. There is virtue in it.”

“It's useless,” said the other, with a sigh. “I
could never keep it.”

His friend entreated; but the unhappy man, though
still alive to the finer feelings which had distinguished
him in a better day, shook his head sorrowfully. The
conversation lagged, and was dropped. At the first
stopping-place, Rubicon arose to leave the boat. He
shook hands with his former friends, spoke a few
words, and stepped ashore. As the boat pushed off,

Smith watched him slowly ascending the wharf, with
feeble and irregular step.

How strange the contrast between the gay company,
pledging their hopes by moonlight, and the
two poor wanderers, parting with each other on the
shores of the Delaware!