The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
 |
|
|
THE EMIGRANTS WIFE. |
 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
THE EMIGRANTS WIFE.
By Amerel.
“Does a woman, named Sandford, live in this village?”
inquired a gentleman in one of the settlements
on the Illinois, of a backwoodsman of rather suspicious
looking appearance.
“Caddy Sandford, do you mean?” The man nodded.
“She lives in that little house on the other side of
the fence,” said the backwoodsman pointing with his
finger. “You'll see a drunken rascal when you get
there, if you see her husband.”
The stranger thanked him and walked on. Scenes
rude and disgusting met his eye at every step. In
one place two men lay beside the road asleep and
drunk; a little further on a hunter was skinning a
live fox; and near an old shed, three or four men
were engaged in a fist fight. After a walk of ten
minutes, he reached the log-house—a wretched one—
and knocked at the door. A sickly looking woman,
with soiled and tattered garments, answered the
summons.
“Is this Mrs. Sandford?” he asked. The woman
you,” he continued; and as she opened the door still
wider, he entered, and seated himself upon a chair.
The apartment bore the marks of extreme poverty.
Two or three chairs, old and broken, a pine table,
some earthen dishes, piled upon a box, and a heavy
oak bucket, were the principal household articles.
The floor was almost black, and in many places charred.
Two children were sitting in a corner playing
together, and a third crying for food.
“Were you born in this settlement?” said the man,
with a low voice and after an embarrassing pause.
“No, sir; I came from the East.”
“Is your husband living?” asked the stranger in the
same low tone.
“He is living,” the woman answered, as she endeavoured
to still the cries of her youngest child.
“I knew,” said the stranger, “a family named Warren
that lived in Connecticut; one of its members
married a man named Sandford, who emigrated to the
West, about ten years since. If you are the person,
I have something important for you to hear.”
“I came from Hartford, Connecticut, at about the
time you speak of,” the woman answered. “My
father's name was James Warren, and I am his only
daughter.”
“I believe, I knew you there,” said the stranger,
still in a low voice. The woman looked at him, with
a scrutinizing eye; and after a pause replied:—
“Perhaps I have forgotten you; yet, there is in
familiar to me.”
“Caroline!” said the man, rising suddenly, and removing
his hat which he had kept on during the
conversation. The woman started and shrieked. It
was her brother.
We will not describe the scene that followed. It
was long before either the brother or sister recovered
from its effects, sufficiently to speak. Caroline at
length said—
“I thought you had all forgotten me, and I was
willing to die alone in this wild place. Oh brother,
it is too much to see one of you at last!”
“We did not forget you, Caroline,” he said. “There
has been many a tear shed over the memory of you
at home. We could obtain no tidings of you; for
we all supposed that Sandford had gone to Missouri,
as he promised to do. I have been there three times
to search for you.”
“And did father forgive me, for marrying against
his will?” exclaimed the poor woman, sobbing, as
the recollection of former days came over her.
“Do not doubt it, sister. There is not one of us,
who would not stretch out his arms to embrace you,
if you would return to Connecticut.”
“If I could see mother but once more—” she sobbed—“it
would make me forget the sad hours I have
spent here.”
“Are these all your children, sister?” he inquired,
anxious to divert her attention from the remembrance
of her change of fortune. The woman nodded. He
and parted the long curls of its hair. Though its
cheeks were pale and thin, and its eyes swollen with
weeping, there was a regularity and softness in the
features, which reminded him of his sister's infancy.
“This is the little niece I have never seen,” he said,
patting its cheek with his hand, and endeavouring to
hide his emotion. The other two children left their
play, and stepped timidly towards their uncle. He
spake kindly to each, framing his words in such a
manner as to relieve his sister from the painful feelings
which his unexpected visit had occasioned.
During this time he had not inquired about Sandford;
but the afternoon had not passed away before
that individual appeared. He was in a beastly state
of intoxication. Bursting into the room, he uttered
a volley of oaths, and swore vengance on his wife.
The youngest child ran to its mother, and the others,
hid themselves behind their uncle. The drunken
man, without heeding the stranger, advanced directly
towards his wife, and seizing her by the arm, had
already raised his hand to strike her, when her brother
sprang between them. The drunken man, startled
by a movement so unexpected, let go his hold, and
reeled backward against the wall. After several
efforts to regain his balance he succeeded, and again
advancing, muttered with an oath—
“Who are you?”
“I am one, that wishes you to sit down and be
quiet,” Warren answered.
“Do you want to fight?” continued Sandford, with
intoxicated.
“I want you to sit down,” said the other.
“I'll not sit down,” shouted Sandford. “Ain't this
my house?—I can take care of myself without getting
drunk.” He again reeled forward.
“Let me lead you to that chair,” Warren said,
laying his hand on the drunkard's arm.
“Let go of me!” growled Sandford. “I ain't
drunk—not I, she's my wife, I tell you that. I'll
blow up the house,” he continued with a loud oath.
“I'll tear you limb from limb; all the men in Illinois
can't hinder me.” As he spoke, he shook off Warren's
hand, and endeavoured to strike at his wife; but
the effort destroyed his equilibrium and he came
down heavily upon the floor. After several ineffectual
efforts to rise, he in a short time fell asleep.
“This is dreadful, Caroline!” said the brother after
a pause. She looked at him without speaking.
“And you have suffered so long, without letting us
know.” he added.
“O, brother, how could I tell you of it?” she exclaimed,
weeping. “It is my own fault—I feel that
I deserve it all. I almost wish you had not come to
see what you have seen. Yet if you but knew the
misery, the days of sorrow and sickness I have endured,
you might pity me. And these my little ones,
it is they alone for whom I have wished to live.”
“But you will not remain here to suffer.”
“What else can I do, brother—wherever I go, he
will follow me.”
“You must go with me to Connecticut,” replied
Warren—“both you and the children.”
His sister shook her head. “I could not endure
father's look,” she said mournfully.
“All is forgotten, Caroline,” said her brother, tenderly.
“It cannot be!” she replied, in the same sad tone.
“He could not forget how I disobeyed him. No, no,
brother—let me remain and die here. I have not
many days to linger,” she added, looking earnestly
upon him. “That disease, which cannot be cured,
has fastened upon me; but oh! it will be consoling
even in death, to know that I may leave these little
ones to your care. You can take them with you,
brother—they have no remembrance of disobedience
and shame, to weigh down the gloomy hours of existence.
Father, too, will be glad to see them, and perhaps,
when he hears them laughing round him, will
think sometimes of their poor mother.”
Warren did not reply. There was a long pause,
broken only by the hard breathings of the drunken
man, and the sobbings of his wife. The evening
gradually wore away, and one after another the children
came to their mother, crying for bread. Their
uncle took some food from his portmanteau, and
spread it before them. They clapped their hands,
and danced in childish joy, at sight of the full meal.
“Eat, sister,” said Warren, as he seated himself
beside her.
She raised a morsel to her lips, but again laid it
upon the table. He urged her, but in vain. She was
that scene, of the brother, hundreds of miles from
home, feeding, with the bread of charity, the little
ones of her who, in early days, had been the
pride and hope of the family. It seemed a silent,
but powerful lecture on the consequences of intemperance.
For several weeks previous to Warren's arrival in
the village, Sandford had been on one of those ruinous
frolics, technically known as batters. After drinking
to excess in the tavern, he would lie under sheds or
hedges during the greater part of the day, and return
in the evening to abuse his wife. Under such treatment,
his constitution, already shattered, was fast
sinking; and for some days past, symptoms of the
mania began to appear in his conduct. On the night
of which we have spoken, as Warren and his sister
were conversing with each other, the drunken man
suddenly awoke under a violent paroxysm of this
horrible disease. Fortunately for the wife and her
brother, two or three hunters belonging to the village,
who knew Sandford, happened to be passing along,
from a night excursion after deer. Hearing the
noise, and fearing that he was abusing Mrs. Sandford
or the children, they pushed open the door, and
entered. Glad of such opportune assistance, Warren
bade them welcome, stating, in a few words, his own
position. With much difficulty the drunken man
was secured, and the hunters, after taking some food
from their hunting-sacks, agreed to remain until
morning.
All the remedies applied to arrest the progress of
Sandford's disorder were vain. He lingered in a
fearful condition for five days, and died a raving
maniac.
The last tie which held Mrs. Sandford to her emigrant
home was now broken; for, although she had
not confessed it, yet her brother perceived that it was
partly on account of her husband that she had been
so decided in her refusal to return to Connecticut.
He, therefore, renewed his solicitations with increased
earnestness, and, at length, with success. The summer
was far advanced; yet, unwilling to remain until
spring, Warren resolved on setting out immediately,
even at the risk of incurring the fevers prevalent on
the western waters during the fall season. Hence, in
a few days after Sandford's death, he was descending
the Illinois, with his sister and her three children,
bound for their distant home. The voyage was a disastrous
one. Warren, himself, was attacked by fever
and ague; and, on arriving at Pittsburgh, the oldest
child suddenly became ill and died. Yet the mother,
frail and sickly as she was, bore up, with that
firmness which woman frequently displays in trials
of the most agonizing nature. It was the middle
of November before the little party arrived at
Hartford.
With what feelings did the child of poverty—the
widow, whose husband lay in a drunkard's grave—
stand before that mansion, in whose halls, when a
girl, her days had been spent in affluence. Her brother
was beside her. He rang the bell, and a servant
voice, and rushed into the hall. There was a clasping
of the hands in joyful surprise, a wild shriek, and
the daughter fell into her father's arms. The children
screamed in terror, and clung to their uncle;
while tears, which manhood could not restrain, started
to his eyes.
“Thank God! thank God!” said the old man, at
last, “I have seen my daughter once more.”
“Can you, forgive me, father?” she murmured.
He pressed her to his bosom without speaking; but
in his countenance, beaming with joy, she read
oblivion of the past.
“And where is mother?” inquired the younger
Warren. The old man was silent.
Caroline gazed long in his face.
“I see it!” she exclaimed, as a wild burst of grief
came to her relief. “Oh, my poor mother! I thought
to get her pardon, and to die in peace. It is I who
have shortened her days, and brought her sorrowing
to the grave. But I shall soon follow her—you will
not have me long, father, to imbitter your age by remembrances
of the past. Oh. it will be sweet to die,
feeling that we are reconciled!”
“Caroline,” said the old man, “what words are
these?” but the excitement was too much for his declining
strength. He sunk with her exhausted upon
a sofa.
Restored to the home of her childhood, to her father's
blessing, and her brother's care, with ease and
luxury around her, and the past consigned to apparent
and be happy in the society of her friends and her
children? Caroline appeared happy. She strove to
relieve the mind of her father from care, and smiled
when, with almost childish fondness, he would say
that she was once more his own girl. But in secret—
when the heart and the countenance did not betray
each other—there was the fast flowing tear, the prayer,
not for joy, but for that which strong men dread to
contemplate, and the cough which announced that
the prayer would be answered. We may not wonder,
then, that the effort to appear happy was too much
for her. She wasted away day by day, until the eyes
of partial friends could no longer be blind to the ravages
of disease. Then every remedy which medical
skill could devise was applied; amusements procured,
and varied, and change of climate proposed. They
were vain. Spring came, and while the vegetable
world was springing into renewed life, while the fields
were clothing themselves in a grassy carpet, and beds
of flowers; while youth sought the society of kindred
youth, without whose smile existence was sad and
languid—she who had once smiled brightest amid
these scenes, lay in her chamber, asleep. The soft
wind came through the open window, and curled, at
times, the locks of her hair. It did not disturb her.
An old man, whose few hairs glittered over his
withered brow, like moonbeams around a ruined
pile, held her hand, and raising his own towards heaven,
exclaimed, “Oh, God! this is not my daughter!”
She neither felt his touch, nor heard his voice.
unmoved, even though they called ceaselessly for their
mother. She slumbered too heavily to be disturbed
by aught like these. Hers was the sleep of death.
She was buried in the little churchyard, and over
her was placed a simple stone—Sacred to the
Memory of the Emigrant's Wife.
| The fountain and the bottle | |