University of Virginia Library

5. THE INTEMPERATE.

Where the lofty forests of Ohio, towering in unshorn
majesty, cast a solemn shadow over the deep
verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a small family
of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary
way. They travelled on foot, but not with the aspect
of mendicants, though care and suffering were
variably depicted on their countenances. The man
walked first, apparently in an unkind, uncompromising
mood. The woman carried in her arms an
infant, and aided the progress of a feeble boy, who
seemed sinking with exhaustion. An eye accustomed
to scan the never-resting tide of emigration, might
discern that these pilgrims were inhabitants of the
Eastern States, probably retreating from some species
of adversity, to one of those imaginary El Dorados,
among the shades of the far West, where it
is fabled that the evils of mortality have found no
place.

James Harwood, the leader of that humble group,

who claimed from him the charities of husband and
of father, halted at the report of a musket, and while
he entered a thicket, to discover whence it proceeded,
the weary and sad-hearted mother sat down upon
the grass. Bitter were her reflections during that
interval of rest among the wilds of Ohio. The
pleasant New-England village from which she had
just emigrated, and the peaceful home of her birth,
rose up to her view—where, but a few years before,
she had given her hand to one, whose unkindness
now strewed her path with thorns. By constant and
endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love,
and the two first years of their union promised happiness.
Both were industrious and affectionate, and
the smiles of their infant in his evening sports or
slumbers, more than repaid the labors of the day.

But a change became visible. The husband grew
inattentive to his business, and indifferent to his fire-side.
He permitted debts to accumulate, in spite of
the economy of his wife, and became morose and
offended at her remonstrances. She strove to hide,
even from her own heart, the vice that was gaining
the ascendency over him, and redoubled her exertions
to render his home agreeable. But too frequently
her efforts were of no avail, or contemptuously
rejected. The death of her beloved mother,
and the birth of a second infant, convinced her that
neither in sorrow nor in sickness could she expect
sympathy from him, to whom she had given her
heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They

became miserably poor, and the cause was evident
to every observer. In this distress, a letter was received
from a brother, who had been for several
years a resident in Ohio, mentioning that he was
induced to remove further westward, and offering
them the use of a tenement which his family would
leave vacant, and a small portion of cleared land,
until they might be able to become purchasers.

Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude.
She thought she saw in it the salvation of her husband.
She believed that if he were divided from his
intemperate companions, he would return to his
early habits of industry and virtue. The trial of
leaving native and endeared scenes, from which she
would once have shrunk, seemed as nothing in comparison
with the prospect of his reformation and
returning happiness. Yet, when all their few effects
were converted into the wagon and horse which
were to convey them to far land, and the scant and
humble necessaries which were to sustain them on
their way thither; when she took leave of her brother
and sisters, with their households; when she
shook hands with the friends whom she had loved
from her cradle, and remembered that it might be for
the last time; and when the hills that encircled her
native village faded into the faint, blue outline of the
horizon, there came over her such a desolation of
spirit, such a foreboding of evil, as she had never
before experienced. She blamed herself for these
feelings, and repressed their indulgence.

The journey was slow and toilsome. The autumnal
rains and the state of the roads were against
them. The few utensils and comforts which they
carried with them, were gradually abstracted and
sold. The object of this traffic could not be doubted.
The effects were but too visible in his conduct.
She reasoned—she endeavored to persuade him to a
different course. But anger was the only result.
When he was not too far stupified to comprehend her
remarks, his deportment was exceedingly overbearing
and arbitrary. He felt that she had no friend to
protect her from insolence, and was entirely in his
own power; and she was compelled to realize that
it was a power without generosity, and that there is
no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and
alienated husband.

As they approached the close of their distressing
journey, the roads became worse, and their horse
utterly failed. He had been but scantily provided
for, as the intemperance of his owner had taxed and
impoverished every thing for his own support. Jane
wept as she looked upon the dying animal, and remembered
his laborious and ill-repaid services.

The unfeeling exclamation with which her husband
abandoned him to his fate, fell painfully upon her
heart, adding another proof of the extinction of his
sensibilities, in the loss of that pitying kindness for
the animal creation, which exercises a silent and salutary
guardianship over our higher and better sympathies.
They were now approaching within a short

distance of the termination of their journey, and their
directions had been very clear and precise. But his
mind became so bewildered and his heart so perverse,
that he persisted in choosing by-paths of underwood
and tangled weeds, under the pretence of seeking a
shorter route. This increased and prolonged their
fatigue; but no entreaty of his wearied wife was
regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at her expostulations,
that she sought safety in silence. The
little boy of four years old, whose constitution had
been feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and
distressed, as to be unable to proceed. The mother,
after in vain soliciting aid and compassion from her
husband, took him in her arms, while the youngest,
whom she had previously carried, and who was unable
to walk, clung to her shoulders. Thus burdened,
her progress was tedious and painful. Still she was
enabled to go on; for the strength that nerves a
mother's frame, toiling for her sick child, is from
God. She even endeavored to press on more rapidly
than usual, fearing that if she fell behind, her husband
would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some
paroxysm of his savage intemperance.

Their road during the day, though approaching
the small settlement where they were to reside, lay
through a solitary part of the country. The children
were faint and hungry; and as the exhausted
mother sat upon the grass, trying to nurse her infant,
she drew from her bosom the last piece of bread, and
held it to the parched lips of the feeble child. But

he turned away his head, and with a scarcely audible
moan, asked for water. Feelingly might she
sympathize in the distress of the poor outcast from
the tent of Abraham, who laid her famishing son
among the shrubs, and sat down a good way off,
saying,—“Let me not see the death of the child.”
But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor
in despair. She looked upward to Him who is the
refuge of the forsaken, and the comforter of those
whose spirits are cast down.

The sun was drawing towards the west, as the
voice of James Harwood was heard, issuing from
the forest, attended by another man with a gun, and
some birds at his girdle.

“Wife, will you get up now, and come along?
We are not a mile from home. Here is John Williams,
who went from our part of the country, and
says he is our next-door neighbor.”

Jane received his hearty welcome with a thankful
spirit, and rose to accompany them. The kind
neighbor took the sick boy in his arms, saying,—

“Harwood, take the baby from your wife; we do
not let our women bear all the burdens, here in
Ohio.”

James was ashamed to refuse, and reached his
hands towards the child. But, accustomed to his
neglect or unkindness, it hid its face, crying, in the
maternal bosom.

“You see how it is. She makes the children so
cross, that I never have any comfort of them. She

chooses to carry them herself, and always will have
her own way in everything.”

“You have come to a new settled country, friends,”
said John Williams; “but it is a good country to get
a living in. Crops of corn and wheat are such as
you never saw in New-England. Our cattle live
in clover, and the cows give us cream instead of
milk. There is plenty of game to employ our leisure,
and venison and wild turkey do not come amiss
now and then on a farmer's table. Here is a short
cut I can show you, though there is a fence or two
to climb. James Harwood, I shall like well to talk
with you about old times and old friends down east.
But why don't you help your wife over the fence with
her baby?”

“So I would, but she is so sulky. She has not
spoke a word to me all day. I always say, let such
folks take care of themselves till their mad fit is
over.”

A cluster of log cabins now met their view through
an opening in the forest. They were pleasantly
situated in the midst of an area of cultivated land.
A fine river, surmounted by a rustic bridge of the
trunks of trees, cast a sparkling line through the
deep, unchanged autumnal verdure.

“Here we live,” said their guide, “a hard-working,
contented people. That is your house which has
no smoke curling up from the chimney. It may not
be quite so genteel as some you have left behind in
the old states, but it is about as good as any in the

neighborhood. I 'll go and call my wife to welcome
you; right glad will she be to see you, for she sets
great store by folks from New-England.”

The inside of a log cabin, to those not habituated
to it, presents but a cheerless aspect. The eye needs
time to accustom itself to the rude walls and floors,
the absence of glass windows, and doors loosely hung
upon leathern hinges. The exhausted woman entered,
and sank down with her babe. There was
no chair to receive-her. In the corner of the room
stood a rough board table, and a low frame resembling
a bedstead. Other furniture there was none.
Glad, kind voices of her own sex, recalled her from
her stupor. Three or four matrons, and several
blooming young faces, welcomed her with smiles.
The warmth of reception in a new colony, and the
substantial services by which it is manifested, put to
shame the ceremonious and heartless professions,
which in a more artificial state of society are dignified
with the name of friendship.

As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison,
assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of
active benevolence. A cheerful flame rose from the
ample fire-place; several chairs and a bench for
children appeared; a bed with comfortable coverings
concealed the shapelessness of the bedstead, and
viands to which they had long been strangers were
heaped upon the board. An old lady held the sick
boy tenderly in her arms, who seemed to revive as
he saw his mother's face brighten; and the infant,

after a draught of fresh milk, fell into a sweet and
profound slumber. One by one the neighbors departed,
that the wearied ones might have an opportunity
of repose. John Williams, who was the last
to bid good-night, lingered a moment as he closed
the door, and said,—

“Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle cow, feeding
at your door; and for old acquaintance sake, you
and your family are welcome to the use of her for
the present, or until you can make out better.”

When they were left alone, Jane poured out her
gratitude to her Almighty Protector in a flood of joyful
tears. Kindness to which she had recently been
a stranger, feel as balm of Gilead upon her wounded
spirit.

“Husband,” she exclaimed, in the fullness of her
heart, “we may yet be happy.”

He answered not, and she perceived that he heard
not. He had thrown himself upon the bed, and in
a deep and stupid sleep was dispelling the fumes of
intoxication.

This new family of emigrants, though in the midst
of poverty, were sensible of a degree of satisfaction
to which they had long been strangers. The difficulty
of procuring ardent spirits in this small and
isolated community, promised to be the means of
establishing their peace. The mother busied herself
in making their humble tenement neat and comfortable,
while her husband, as if ambitious to earn in a
new residence the reputation he had forfeited in the

old, labored diligently to assist his neighbors in gathering
of their harvest, receiving in payment such
articles as were needed for the subsistence of his
household. Jane continually gave thanks in her
prayers for this great blessing; and the hope she permitted
herself to indulge of his permanent reformation,
imparted unwonted cheerfulness to her brow
and demeanor. The invalid boy seemed also to
gather healing from his mother's smiles; for so great
was her power over him, since sickness had rendered
his dependence complete, that his comfort, and
even his countenance, were a faithful reflection of
her own. Perceiving the degree of her influence,
she endeavored to use it, as every religious parent
should, for his spiritual benefit. She supplicated that
the pencil which was to write upon his soul, might
be guided from above. She spoke to him in the tenderest
manner of his Father in Heaven, and of His
will respecting little children. She pointed out his
goodness in the daily gifts that sustain life; in the
glorious sun, as it came forth rejoicing in the east,
in the gently-falling rain, the frail plant, and the dews
that nourish it. She reasoned with him of the
changes of nature, till he loved even the storm, and
the lofty thunder, because they came from God.
She repeated to him passages of scripture, with which
her memory was stored; and sang hymns, until she
perceived that if he was in pain, he complained not,
if he might but hear her voice. She made him acquainted
with the life of the compassionate Redeemer,
and how he called young children to his arms,
though the disciples forbade them. And it seemed
as if a voice from heaven urged her never to desist
from cherishing this tender and deep-rooted piety;
because, like the flower of grass, he must soon fade
away. Yet, though it was evident that the seeds
of disease were in his system, his health at intervals
seemed to be improving, and the little household
partook, for a time, the blessings of tranquillity and
content.

But let none flatter himself that the dominion of
vice is suddenly or easily broken. It may seem to
relax its grasp, and to slumber; but the victim who
has long worn its chain, if he would utterly escape,
and triumph at last, must do so in the strength of
Omnipotence. This, James Harwood never sought.
He had begun to experience that prostration of spirits
which attends the abstraction of an habitual stimulant.
His resolution to recover his lost character was not
proof against this physical inconvenience. He determined
at all hazards to gratify his depraved appetite.
He laid his plans deliberately, and with the
pretext of making some arrangements about the
wagon, which had been left broken on the road, departed
from his home. His stay was protracted beyond
the appointed limit, nd at his return, his sin
was written on his brow, in characters too strong to
be mistaken. That he had also brought with him
some hoard of intoxicating poison, to which to resort,
there remained no room to doubt. Day after day

did his shrinking household witness the alternations
of causeless anger and brutal tyranny. To lay waste
the comfort of his wife, seemed to be his prominent
object. By constant contradiction and misconstruction,
he strove to distress her, and then visited her
sensibilities upon her as sins. Had she been more
obtuse by nature, or more indifferent to his welfare,
she might with greater ease have borne the cross.
But her youth was nurtured in tenderness, and education
had refined her susceptibilities, both of pleasure
and pain. She could not forget the love he had
once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling contrast
from filling her with anguish. She could not
resign the hope that the being who had early evinced
correct feelings and noble principles of action, might
yet be won back to that virtue which had rendered
him worthy of her affections. Still, this hope deferred
was sickness and sorrow to the heart. She found
the necessity of deriving consolation, and the power
of endurance, wholly from above. The tender invitation
by the mouth of a prophet, was as balm to
her wounded soul,—“As a woman forsaken and
grieved in spirit, and as a wife of youth, when thou
wast refused, have I called thee, saith thy God.”

So faithful was she in the discharge of the difficult
duties that devolved upon her—so careful not to irritate
her husband by reproach or gloom—that to a
casual observer she might have appeared to be confirming
the doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that
happiness is in exact proportion to virtue. Had he

asserted, that virtue is the source of all that happiness
which depends upon ourselves, none could have
controverted his position. But, to a woman, a wife,
a mother, how small is the portion of independent
happiness! She has woven the tendrils of her soul
around many props. Each revolving year renders
their support more necessary. They cannot waver,
or warp, or break, but she must tremble and bleed.

There was one modification of her husband's persecutions
which the fullest measure of her piety could
not enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkindness
to her feeble and suffering boy. It was at first
commenced as the surest mode of distressing her. It
opened a direct avenue to her heart-strings.—What
began in perverseness seemed to end in hatred, as
evil habits sometimes create perverted principles.
The wasted and wild-eyed invalid shrank from his
father's glance and footstep, as from the approach
of a foe. More than once had he taken him from
the little bed which maternal care had provided for
him, and forced him to go forth in the cold of the
winter storm.

“I mean to harden him,” said he. “All the
neighbors know that you make such a fool of him
that he will never be able to get a living. For my
part, I wish I had never been called to the trial of
supporting a useless boy, who pretends to be sick
only that he may be coaxed by a silly mother.”

On such occasions, it was in vain that the mother
attempted to protect her child. She might neither

shelter him in her bosom, nor control the frantic violence
of the father. Harshness, and the agitation
of fear, deepened a disease which might else have
yielded. The timid boy, in terror of his natural
protector, withered away like a blighted flower. It
was of no avail that friends remonstrated with the
unfeeling parent, or that hoary-headed men warned
him solemnly of his sins. Intemperance had destroyed
his respect for man, and his fear of God.

Spring at length emerged from the shades of that
heavy and bitter winter. But its smile brought no
gladness to the declining child. Consumption fed
upon his vitals, and his nights were restless and full
of pain.

“Mother, I wish I could smell the violets that grew
upon the green bank by our old, dear home.”

“It is too early for violets, my child. But the grass
is beautifully green around us, and the birds sing
sweetly, as if their hearts were full of praise.”

“In my dreams last night, I saw the clear waters
of the brook that ran by the bottom of my little garden.
I wish I could taste them once more. And I heard
such music, too, as used to come from that white
church among the trees, where every Sunday the
happy people meet to worship God.”

The mother saw that the hectic fever had been
long increasing, and knew there was such an unearthly
brightness in his eye, that she feared his intellect
wandered. She seated herself on his low bed,

and bent over him to soothe and compose him. He
lay silent for some time.

“Do you think my father will come?”

Dreading the agonizing agitation which, in his
paroxysms of coughing and pain, he evinced at the
sound of his father's well-known footstep, she answered,—

“I think not, love. You had better try to sleep.”

“Mother, I wish he would come. I do not feel
afraid now. Perhaps he would let me lay my cheek
to his once more, as he used to do when I was a babe
in my grandmother's arms. I should be glad to say
good bye to him, before I go to my Saviour.”

Gazing intently in his face, she saw the work of
the destroyer, in lines too plain to be mistaken.

“My son—my dear son—say, Lord Jesus receive
my spirit.”

“Mother,” he replied, with a sweet smile upon his
ghastly features, “he is ready. I desire to go to him.
Hold the baby to me, that I may kiss her. That is
all. Now sing to me, and, oh! wrap me close in
your arms, for I shiver with cold.”

He clung with a death grasp, to that bosom which
had long been his sole earthly refuge.

“Sing louder, dear mother,—a little louder.—I
cannot hear you.”

A tremulous tone, as of a broken harp, rose above
her grief, to comfort the dying child. One sigh of
icy breath was upon her cheek, as she joined it to his
—one shudder—and all was over. She held the

body long in her arms, as if fondly hoping to warm
and revivify it with her breath. Then she stretched
it upon its bed, and kneeling beside it, hid her face
in that grief which none but mothers feel. It was a
deep and sacred solitude, along with the dead. Nothing
save the soft breathing of the sleeping babe fell
upon that solemn pause. Then the silence was broken
by a wail of piercing sorrow. It ceased, and a
voice arose,—a voice of supplication for strength to
endure, as “seeing Him who is invisible.” Faith
closed what was begun in weakness. It became a
prayer of thanksgiving to Him who had released the
dove-like spirit from the prison-house of pain, that
it might taste the peace and mingle in the melody of
heaven.

She arose from the orison, and bent calmly over
her dead. The thin, placid features wore a smile,
as when he had spoken of Jesus. She composed
the shining locks around the pure forehead, and gazed
long on what was to her so beautiful. Tears had
vanished from her eyes, and in their stead was an
expression almost sublime, as of one who had given
an angel back to God.

The father entered carelessly. She pointed to the
pallid, immovable brow. “See, he suffers no longer.”
He drew near, and looked on the dead with surprise
and sadness. A few natural tears forced their
way, and fell on the face of the first-born, who was
once his pride. The memories of that moment were
bitter. He spoke tenderly to the emaciated mother;

and she, who a short time before was raised above
the sway of grief, wept like an infant as those few
affectionate tones touched the sealed fountains of
other years.

Neighbors and friends visited them, desirous to
console their sorrow, and attended them when they
committed the body to the earth. There was a shady
and secluded spot, which they had consecrated by the
burial of their few dead. Thither that whole little
colony were gathered, and, seated on the fresh
springing grass, listened to the holy, healing words
of the inspired volume. It was read by the oldest
man in the colony, who had himself often mourned.
As he bent reverently over the sacred page, there
was that on his brow which seemed to say,—“This
has been my comfort in my affliction.” Silver hairs
thinly covered his temples, and his low voice was
modulated by feeling, as he read of the frailty of man,
withering like the flower of grass, before it groweth
up; and of His majesty in whose sight “a thousand
years are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch
in the night.” He selected from the words of that
compassionate One, who “gathereth the lambs with
his arm, and carrieth them in his bosom,” who,
pointing out as an example the humility of little children,
said,—“Except ye become as one of these, ye
cannot enter the kingdom of heaven,” and who calleth
all the weary and heavy-laden to come unto him,
that he may give them rest. The scene called forth
sympathy, even from manly bosoms. The mother,

worn with watching and weariness, bowed her head
down to the clay that concealed her child. And it
was observed with gratitude by that friendly group,
that the husband supported her in his arms, and mingled
his tears with hers.

He returned from this funeral in much mental distress.
His sins were brought to remembrance, and
reflection was misery. For many nights, sleep was
disturbed by visions of his neglected boy.—Sometimes
he imagined that he heard him coughing from
his low bed, and felt constrained to go to him, in a
strange disposition of kindness, but his limbs were
unable to obey the dictates of his will. Then he
would see him pointing with a thin dead hand, to the
dark grave, or beckoning him to follow to the unseen
world. Conscience haunted him with terrors, and
many prayers from pious hearts arose, that he might
now be led to repentance. The venerable man who
had read the bible at the burial of his boy, counselled
and entreated him, with the earnestness of a father,
to yield to the warning voice from above, and to
“break off his sins by righteousness, and his iniquities
by turning unto the Lord.”

There was a change in his habits and conversation,
and his friends trusted it would be permanent.
She who, above all others, was interested in the result,
spared no exertion to win him back to the way
of truth, and to soothe his heart into peace with itself,
and obedience to his Maker. Yet was she doomed
to witness the full force of grief and of remorse

upon intemperance, only to see them utterly overthrown
at last. The reviving virtue, with whose
indications she had solaced herself, and even given
thanks that her beloved son had not died in vain,
was transient as the morning dew. Habits of industry,
which had begun to spring up, proved themselves
to be without root. The dead, and his cruelty to the
dead, were alike forgotten. Disaffection to the chastened
being, who against hope still hoped for his salvation,
resumed its dominion. The friends who had
alternately reproved and encouraged him, were convinced
that their efforts had been of no avail. Intemperance,
“like the strong man armed,” took possession
of a soul that lifted no cry for aid to the Holy
Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the destroyer.

Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their
arrival at the colony returned. It was to Jane Harwood
a period of sad and solemn retrospection. The
joys of early days, and the sorrows of maturity,
passed in review before her, and while she wept, she
questioned her heart, what had been its gain from a
father's discipline, or whether it had sustained that
greatest of all losses—the loss of its afflictions.

She was alone at this season of self-communion.
The absences of her husband had become more frequent
and protracted. A storm, which feelingly
reminded her of those which had often beat upon
them when homeless and weary travellers, had been
raging for nearly two days. To this cause she

imputed the unusually long stay of her husband.
Through the third night of his absence she lay sleepless,
listening for his steps. Sometimes she fancied
she heard shouts of laughter, for the mood in which
he returned from his revels was various. But it was
only the shriek of the tempest. Then she thought
some ebullition of his frenzied anger rang in her
ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through
the forest. All night long she listened to these sounds,
and hushed and sang to her affrighted babe. Unrefreshed
she arose and resumed her morning labors.

Suddenly her eye was attracted by a group of
neighbors, coming up slowly from the river. A
dark and terrible foreboding oppressed her. She hastened
out to meet them. Coming towards her house
was a female friend, agitated and tearful, who passing
her arm around her, would have spoken.

“Oh, you come to bring me evil tidings! I pray
you let me know the worst.”

The object was indeed to prepare her mind for a
fearful calamity. The body of her husband had been
found drowned, as was supposed, during the darkness
of the preceding night, in attempting to cross
the bridge of logs, which had been partially broken
by the swollen waters. Utter prostration of spirit
came over the desolate mourner. Her energies were
broken and her heart withered. She had sustained
the privations of poverty and emigration, and the
burdens of unceasing labor and unrequited care, without

murmuring. She had lain her first-born in the
grave with resignation, for faith had heard her Saviour
saying,—“Suffer the little child to come unto
me.” She had seen him, in whom her heart's young
affections were garnered up, become a “persecutor
and injurious,” a prey to vice the most disgusting
and destructive. yet she had borne up under all.
One hope remained with her as an “anchor of the
soul,”—the hope that he might yet repent and be
reclaimed. She had persevered in her complicated
and self-denying duties with that charity which
“beareth all things,—believeth all things,—endureth
all things.”

But now, he had died in his sin. The deadly
leprosy which had stolen over his heart, could no
more be “purged by sacrifice or offering for ever.”
She knew not that a single prayer for mercy had
preceded the soul on its passage to the High Judge's
bar. There were bitter dregs in this grief, which she
had never before wrung out.

Again the sad-hearted community assembled in
their humble cemetery. A funeral in an infant colony
awakens sympathies of an almost exclusive character.
It is as if a large family suffered. One is
smitten down whom every eye knew, every voice
saluted. To bear along the corpse of the strong
man, through the fields which he had sown, and to
cover motionless in the grave that arm which trusted
to have reaped the ripening harvest, awakens a thrill
deep and startling in the breast of those who wrought

by his side during the burden and heat of the day.
To lay the mother on her pillow of clay, whose last
struggle with life was, perchance, to resign the hope
of one more brief visit to the land of her fathers,—
whose heart's last pulsation might have been a prayer
that her children should return and grow up
within the shadow of the school-house and the church
of God, is a grief in which none save emigrants
may participate. To consign to their narrow, note-less
abode, both young and old, the infant and him
of hoary hairs, without the solemn knell, the sable
train, the hallowed voice of the man of God, giving
back, in the name of his fellow-Christians, the most
precious roses of their pilgrim path, and speaking
with divine authority of Him who is the “resurrection
and the life,” adds desolation to that weeping
with which man goeth downward to his dust.

But with heaviness of an unspoken and peculiar
nature was this victim of vice borne from the home
that he troubled, and laid by the side of his son to
whose tender years he had been an unnatural enemy.
There was sorrow among all who stood around
his grave, and it bore features of that sorrow which
is without hope.

The widowed mourner was not able to raise her
head from the bed, when the bloated remains of her
unfortunate husband were committed to the earth.
Long and severe sickness ensued, and in her convalescence
a letter was received from her brother, inviting
her and her child to an asylum under his roof

and appointing a period to come and conduct them
on their homeward journey.

With her little daughter, the sole remnant of her
wrecked heart's wealth, she returned to her kindred.
It was with emotions of deep and painful gratitude
that she bade farewell to the inhabitants of that infant
settlement, whose kindness through all her adversities
had never failed. And when they remembered
the example of uniform patience and piety
which she had exhibited, and the saint-like manner
in which she had sustained her burdens, and cherished
their sympathies, they felt as if a tutelary spirit
had departed from among them.

In the home of her brother, she educated her
daughter in industry, and that contentment which
virtue teaches. Restored to those friends with whom
the morning of life had passed, she shared with humble
cheerfulness the comforts that earth had yet in
store for her; but in the cherished sadness of her
perpetual widowhood, in the bursting sighs of her
nightly orison, might be traced a sacred and deep-rooted
sorrow—the memory of her erring husband,
and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance.

Hartford, 1833.