University of Virginia Library

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

BY ANGELA OF GLEN COTTAGE.

It was at the close of a warm day in summer, that a man
with battered hat, and tattered clothes, with a poor forlorn-looking
woman and three little girls, called at the mansion of Judge
Blanchard, to solicit lodgings in his barn, on the new made hay,
for the night. The barn was open, and there, in the dusk of
evening, they grouped together to eat the crusts of charity, and
to rest their weary limbs after the day's travel in the hot sun.
Poor creatures! what has brought them to this miserable state
of things? Dear reader, I am obliged to tell you, it is the common
cause of the misery and wretchedness of this life,—Intemperance!

To cure an evil, it must be known. And what is there
greater, or what has more power to destroy social and domestic
happiness, than this alarming vice!

We see these poor creatures, beggars as they are, but they
have not always been thus; and what has brought them to this
destitute and deplorable condition, without a shelter for their
defenceless heads?

Away back in the past, there stands a lowly but pleasant
cottage, covered with creepers and surrounded with roses, and
there sits by the door a beautiful young girl with her sewing, at
the close of a lovely day. Ever and anon she raises her anxious
eyes toward the street, and leans forward, as if she expects to
see something. There are several trees that partly obscure the

road, but there is a form just appearing in sight, that causes her
young warm heart to pause in its beatings, and then it goes
again faster than ever.

Henry Melville, surely—and who would not be pleased to
see so fine-looking a young man?

Many and frequent were the evenings thus passed, and no
foreboding of evil had ever crossed her inexperienced mind. No
thought but that of complete, and perfect happiness, lay in the
bright future, for she had never heard that he had any bad
habit, and her unsuspecting heart, could never have formed so
unkind a thought of one so beloved.

Oh, if she had known the truth, “what darts of agony had
missed her heart,” but she lived in days when drinking habits
were kept concealed, and out of sight, till the vice of inebriety
glared through the blood-shot eyes, and revealed the loathsome
story, when remedy was too late!

That was, indeed, a sad day; and how many “bowed
their hearts and heads” in death, worn out with the anguish of
a drunkard's wife! for what can bring such torturing woe, such
scalding tears, such deep-rooted sorrow?

Poor Mary Mansfield—how innocent and lovely she busies
herself about the house, moving around like a lightfooted sylph,
and her heart full of the delicious vision of domestic happiness.

She looks forward to the time, when she and Henry, will
have a house of their own, and what a sweet thought to have
his care and company, and herself ministering to his wants.

That day came at length, and how brightly passed those
hours. Every little comfort was nicely arranged, in due order,
and those dear visions were no longer shadowy fiction, but
blissful reality.

Their little tea-table was neatly spread in their own “sweet
home;” and that first meal together, was one long to be remembered—and

why should anything have come to mar or
cloud their joy?

Henry had long been in the habit of taking his glass, but
no one thought, in those days, that moderate drinking would
lead to Intemperance! or that so likely a young man, could become
a drunkard, and no word of caution had ever been breathed
in his ear.

There were then no Temperance Societies—no strong
public opinion, to frown on such practices; and on he went,
till his chains were fetters of iron, binding him hand and foot!

Oh, what a night was that, when Henry was first brought
home in the arms of men, reasonless, and helpless as the dead!
What desolation, and despair, filled the lonely heart of the
young wife and mother, as she laid down her infant, to gaze on
the features of her lost husband; yes, lost he was, indeed; and
life, ever after, wore the sombre hues of the grave, for nothing
could ever erase from her memory, the terrible visions of that
night!

To trace him all the way downward, would be but a gloomy
task. But there were entreaties, and promises, hopes and fears,
disappointment and sorrow, in the recurrence of every mournful
day, and at that time no one put forth an effort to prevent the
infatuated inebriate in his course of ruin, and disgrace, and self
immolation; and there was then no kind Son or friend of Temperance
to lift him up, and surround him with a hearty influence.
The maxims of that time were, “Let them alone, if they
want to drink let them drink.” “It will be abridging their
liberties, and this is a free country.”

Weary years filled with the sorrowful details of want and
misery, passed on in gloom, poverty and sorrow, until all their
little comforts were sold, for debts incurred at the bar-room and
grocery, and this incited their landlord to eject them, ragged and

penniless, from the poor hovel in which they had long been
sheltered.

Countless were the sorrows of those woeful years—but a
home was some recompense—a place where poor Mary could
pillow her weary heart and head; and to hide her sufferings in
the deep sepulchre of her own desolate bosom was some alleviation.
But oh, how bitter the hour, when taking the two
youngest by the hand, she led them forth into a bleak world,
and wept as she looked back, as if it had been her paradise.
Thus will the heart of women cling to whatever has given it
rest or support, even in its bitterness and agony!

How strongly this scene contrasted with the bright visions
of her early years, and had she not reason to feel that no woe
is like that of being the wretched wife of a miserable drunkard,
when her eyes fell, for the last time, on the dim outline of her
lowly hovel retreating in the distance, and she felt herself
homeless for ever.

She looked at her husband—literally clothed in rags of
various colors—every lineament of his face disfigured, and
changed, and his dull bleared eyes showing the imbecility of
his weakened intellect, and thought of Henry Melville as he
used to be, in days that were past, and such a sigh as only comes
from the depths of a broken-hearted wife, was breathed to the
moaning winds, at the same time looking up to Heaven for protection
and mercy in this hour of need and trial!

It was only this, that gave her strength to go forward, for
she had long since learned to put her trust in God as her only
friend and helper.

The two youngest girls were old enough to travel slowly,
and knew not the bitter thoughts that were in their poor
mother's heart. They loved her and each other, and were
happy, they knew not why. They could laugh and pick the

flowers, and while the cravings of hunger were satisfied, they
could lie down by the road-side, and sleep as sweetly as if on a
bed of down.

Ally the oldest was nine, and bad learned to be useful from
her earliest years. She exercised a kind of motherly care of
the little ones on their weary errand of beggary, and would
sometimes ask her father to get a home again, as night reminded
her of rest and slumber.

Away on the hill stands a lofty dwelling of imposing appearance,
that attracts the eyes of the poor travellers. It betokens
abundance and wealth, and a kind of instinctive feeling
drew them in their want where it seemed most easy that their
wants should be supplied. This, at the time, appeared a mere
matter of chance, but He who “feeds the ravens” and clothes
the lily of the valley, directed every step of their aimless way.
His pitying eye was upon His child, as she silently implored
aid from Heaven for herself and destitute family.

They little thought, as thus nightfall brought them to the
hospitable mansion of Judge Blanchard, that so many blessings
were wrapped up in that one little event, showing in so marked
a way, the care of an over-ruling Providence around those who
confidingly put their trust in Him.

Weary and glad of a place to rest, they quietly slept on the
new hay, while the mother's wakeful thoughts, were ascending
on high, with earnest prayer, that God would aid them.

Oh, what a beautiful morning dawned! the rosy east was
slightly veiled with delicate clouds that disappeared as the sun
in splendor sent his radiant beams over the waking earth. The
children were early astir, and as they saw the cows standing
around the barn, began their clamors for milk. They saw them
come from the house with pails, and watched them as they
filled them high with the rich foam, and the poor mother could

not satisfy the little one till she promised to send to the house for
a cup for her. Little Ally was promptly out, wending her way
to the mansion, over the dewy grass with her little bare feet,
and, in respectful words, was asking for the creamy beverage
and a pittance for their breakfasts. Oh, the poor beggar, who is
so from necessity, may you fare as well!

Mrs. Blanchard was one of those women who live for
some purpose. Not satisfied with merely passing the days and
living in ease and idleness, dreaming away the hours on the
sofa, or bed, she felt that life had duties, and she shrank not
from any effort that could in any way promote the interests of
her family, or those of her fellow-beings.

It was a pleasure to her to minister to the wants of those
who needed aid, and when she saw the figure of the little girl,
she required no importunity, but welcomed her in, asking her if
she wanted anything to eat. This took away the burden from
Ally's heart, for she had been often denied, and almost feared
that she might be again.

Her sweet accent, and respectful manner, won the heart of
kind Mrs. Blanchard, and when she examined, with some scrutiny,
her intelligent face, her dark eyes, and still darker hair,
and beheld her in the faded, soiled garb of poverty, she thought
of the fulness and overflowing abundance of her own house, and
the voice of God was in her ear, and in her heart. How fast
the words of Scripture came to her mind: “He that giveth to
the poor lendeth to the Lord.” “He that giveth unto the poor
shall not lack, but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a
curse,” &c.; and a pan was well filled with provisions, with a
pitcher of milk. Little Ally had to go and come several times
to carry all the food and dishes in her small hands.

When their full repast was over, Ally returned the dishes,
and meanwhile Mrs. Blanchard had time to consider her duty

and her inclimation, in behalf of the little girl. Her own
daughters were married, and richly supplied, and no one could
possibly suffer in thought or reality by an arrangement she had
it in her heart to make.

With many thanks from her mother, Ally gave the dishes
into Mrs. Blanchard's hands, and as she looked the child in the
face, she kindly asked her if she would like to stay with her.
She had seen, as if in a vision, what power she held in her own
heart to change that poor child's destiny, and she dare not refuse
to do so manifest a duty. The thought, it is true, had come
over her with force, that her own cares and anxieties would be
increased, but still could she not make some sacrifice for the
good of others? Why had God made her to differ from them,
unless to give room for the exercise of one of his own highest
attributes, that of benevolence, and her own selfish thoughts were
banished, when she made the enquiry.

Poor little Ally had never thought of leaving her mother,
and although she knew her poverty, yet she hardly knew what
to answer, but told her she thought she should like to stay, if
her parents thought best to have her; but little she knew what
an entire change in her character and life those few words were
likely to produce.

Mrs. Blanchard sent Ally to call her parents, that she
might talk the matter over with them. The father did not care,
and chose not to go; but the mother felt that perhaps her
prayer was about to be answered, and seemed to see the kind
hand of her Heavenly Father pointing the way. She left the
little ones with the husband, and followed Ally into the residence
of wealth and luxury.

The poor woman's face showed that cankering sorrow had
been lying at her heart-strings, for it has its own peculiar
expression in the eye and about the mouth; and then her

voice was keyed to its low and spiritual tones in a mournful
cadence.

Mrs. Blanchard touched upon the subject with as much
delicacy as if she was desiring a favor, knowing that even the
lowest poverty cannot destroy a mother's love.

They seemed to be each under the same directing influence,
and it required but a few words to come to a decision, and make
all suitable arrangements, and Ally was to be left at the elegant
mansion on the hill.

The mother only can know, what fearful sufferings and
corroding anguish of heart, must be long and bitterly felt before
she could be induced to give to a stranger the first dear
child of her love at so tender an age!

This step made room for another, and a new desire was
awakened in the heart of the mother to remain near her child.

With aid and encouragement an old house was found, and
among the ancient stores of Mrs. Blanchard, put away as useless
lumber, was furnished articles amply enough to supply their
scanty need, and to make them as a small household, quite
comfortable, which was, to this poor family, as if a fortune had
suddenly fallen to them.

The miserable father having been by necessity compelled
to do without his inebriating draught began to feel a spark of
humanity kindling in his callous breast, for he actually put up
the bedstead, and gathered fuel for a fire on the old wide hearth,
and was heard humming snatches of old tunes he had known
in earlier days.

It was in the suffering mother's heart a warm ray of comfort
shining down from the throne of Heaven, and devout
gratitude arose like a cloud of sweet incense, from the altar of
her thoughts.

She would once have looked upon such a home with horror,

but it seemed to her now as a sweet place of repose and shelter,
from the wandering, uncertain life of sometimes abused beggary,
to which her delicate nature had been forced to submit, by the
overmastering power of Intemperance.

But as opportunities of labor occurred, and scanty means
were obtained, a large part of it was daily expended at a neighboring
bar, whose owner seemed to have lost all conscience, as
he took the very pence his poor family needed for bread, in exchange
for the destructive potions of inebriety.

This was no new disappointment, but had become a part of
her dreary history; and she meekly, and with broken spirit, assumed
the extra labor of daily toil, in families, to eke out subsistence
for her family at her desolate hearth-side.

Years are soon told, and nature—abused nature—will not
always last. Clear as a sunbeam, and true to the Eternal record,
“half his days” were not numbered, when disease attacked
the brain with the drunkard's delirium. The ravings and howlings
of despair were only a parallel, a faint foretaste of an endless
future of mental anguish, which held him bound to its Promethean
Rock of torture for an almost endless week!

This penalty, which will come at times, makes terrible
havoc with the citadel of life, and through its broken door, the
already condemned spirit, is often called from its walls, to obey
the summons of its Creator. But not yet, was the mandate given
to him; he must live a little longer, as a distinct warning to
the living, “to shun the paths of the Destroyer!”

So enfeebled had he become, that he could no longer work,
and so unmanageable at home, that his wife could not endure
his brutal conduct, made doubly ferocious by words of anger,
blasphemy and profaneness, and could not leave him, to labor
for their daily wants. This compelled her to the last step of
human necessity, to report her case to the “Overseer of the

Poor,” who removed them to the general receptacle of want
and woe, where, in a few wretched months, he ended his
earthly career. And here, unwept, unloved, the loathsome remains
of the drunkard were borne to the grave by a few miserable
Paupers, made so by the same unhappy cause.

There is a loneliness even for an Inebriate's widow, and
now she thinks of him as when she first knew him, and in her
happier days, and realizes the sadness of a heart bereaved,
strange as it seems! We wonder at these things, only to confess
their truth. It is so natural for the mind to feed itself with
affectionate thoughts, and cherish the memory of those we ever
loved! Once more she went forth as poverty and want will
do, to find places among strangers for her children, and one for
herself, but first of all, to see her dear Ally.

The home of wealth and comfort will not always supply
happiness; many a sorrowful heart and tearful eye may be
found amid the elegancies of luxurious abodes; and at first,
poor little Ally wept as she felt herself surrounded only by
strangers, separated as she now was from her little playmate
sisters, and her affectionate mother, but not long did such feelings
control the little one's thoughts.

She continued to feel a little strange for awhile, undergoing
so much of a change in her habits and life, but a thorough bath,
clean new clothes, and nice combed hair, produced as much of
a revolution in her feelings as they did in her appearance, and
she felt herself no longer a beggar girl. She soon became attached
to her new home, and no day passed without marked
improvement in attainments, which made Mrs. Blanchard feel
that her labors and efforts were meeting a full recompense in the
satisfaction of doing good to others, and strongly securing the
grateful affections of the child, which seemed to warm her own
heart like a sunbeam, and gave to her childless home something

of its former aspect, when her own, were about her in their innocent
joy.

What changes a few years will produce in that period
when light hearted, thoughtless childhood is passing away, it
seems almost like a new existence in some, and Ally at this
time seemed to be undergoing a blossoming process in the very
spring time of womanhood. The very heart of the rose was on
her cheek, while the delicate lily was on her brow. Thought
sparkled in her dark eye, and her laugh was no longer that of
careless mirth, but the real smile of intelligence and rational happiness
dimpling in her face. The developing period is sometimes
slow, but in others rapid and peculiar. The oldest, and one
alone in a family are soonest to mature, they are sooner thrown
upon their own resources, and gather strength by every personal
effort, as the weakened limb will by use.
The influences of
Mrs. Blanchard's home training, and the acquirements of
school, were weaving for her character and mind a beautiful
fabric, and adorning her heart and life with the brightest ornaments.

Gentleness, benevolence, sincerity, and their attendant
sister graces, were beautifully manifest in her daily deportment,
and although she was very often made to feel the cold and bitter
scorn of contempt as it curled on the lip, and the sly wink
and smile, and whisper of malice, or envy, yet it only served
to heighten and ripen all the rarest richest flowers of female
character, and gave a more distinct reality to her real goodness
and worth. It was the very discipline of heaven to unfold in
her young heart the meekness and forbearance and forgiveness
of the precious Saviour, and to make her cling the closer to His
love, and the shadow of his wing. And was she not strengthened,
and comforted, and enlightened by these very trials, that
in her pathway seemed only like sharp and piercing thorns?

When her poor mother and young sisters dragging their
weary weight of poverty and sorrow came, she did not turn her
eye coldly upon them, ashamed of their wretchedness, but her
eyes filled with genuine tears of pitying emotions and natural
affection for those she loved, and the death of her father seemed
like a cruel blow from the monster Intemperance, and from that
time her eyes were fully opened to the small beginnings of his
deadly influence; and oh, how it pained her to see the fatal
wine-cup passing in the social circle, for she knew it was the
first link in the strong chain that binds the drunkard, and she
saw its first bright links reaching on to those dark corroded ones
that lie around the inebriate in the street gutter.

Good Mrs. Blanchard did what she could to soothe and
comfort her homeless visitors, and soon found places for both the
children, where they could be useful and benefitted, and their
morals and education should form a part of the arrangement.
And the mother early found herself in a pleasant home, as
nurse and friend, where she was both loved and respected for
her kindness and real worth.

A few more years, and what a change has come to Ally,
the poor little girl that slept on the hay! In one of our largest
cities you may see her presiding over an elegant mansion, occupying
the same rooms that were recently occupied by the
family of one of our most distinguished ambassadors to a foreign
court. These are life's pictures in some of their strongest contrasts
of light and shade!

Mrs. Clifton is a happy woman, and knows well how to
appreciate every blessing. When little Charlie lay in his luxurious
cradle, and the delicate light came through the damask
curtains to mingle with the odor of a fresh vase of newly-blossomed
flowers, and the light step of the nurse was scarce an
audible sound in that chamber of wealth, the young mother's

heart was filled even to tears, with a deep, full sense of gratitude
and joy. She thought of her own blessings in contrast
with those of her own dear mother's, and words of loving praise
went up to her Father in Heaven!

A few more years, and as the evening lamps were lighting
up the large parlor revealing statues and pictures, and costly
books, flowers, birds, &c., a happy group were eagerly listening
to Mr. Clifton as he relates the news of the day. That elderly
lady in the plain neat cap, sitting in the sofa-chair, is Mrs. Clifton's
mother, and those young ladies are her married sisters,
who, in separate homes, are living in the same city, accomplished
in all the arts of housekeeping, and intelligent, affectionate
companions of honorable men; and the three husbands,
as Temperance days came on, were strong friends of the cause,
faithfully encouraged and aided, by the co-operations of their
families, exerting by their position, example, and personal efforts,
a wide-spread influence.

The whole group are looking greatly surprised, and their
eyes sparkle with wonder and astonishment, as Mr. Clifton relates
something that seems to interest, as well as to pain them.

He stood in his store, and heard an unusual noise, and saw
a whole troup of boys chasing after a man in tattered clothes,
who was evidently in a state of deep intoxication, and they
were making themselves merry with his debasement. He
stepped out and dispersed them, and to his own utter astonishment
found it to be James Gardiner, whom they had all known
when he was a promising clerk in a neighboring city near
where they lived, and whose parents were friends of Judge
Blanchard in the same place.

Ah, yes! and Mrs. Clifton had now full reason to know
that she had done wisely when she discarded him in early life,
solely for the reason that she knew him to be a wine drinker,

and that his inclinations led him often to places of social excite
ment; and knew, too, that he was a gay, unwary young man,
who sacrificed principle at the shrine of pleasure.

“Can we not do something for him?” asked Mrs. Clifton;
“do ask him to spend the night with us, and don't let him refuse
to come: tell him we wish to see him.”

James Gardiner felt at first very reluctant to see his old
friends, and Mrs. Clifton in particular, for he had not lost his
memory; and pride, and shame, were evidently striving for the
mastery.

A denial could not be taken, and Mr. Clifton, with the
poor miserable outcast by his side, was soon at the door of his
own elegant mansion. It was an affecting, painful meeting to
all, as they all knew too well the cause of poor James's ruin,
degradation and poverty.

The pledge—the heaven-sent pledge—has done wonders;
and many a poor, lost, wretched, infatuated being has been
brought under its influence; and before he left the city, he was
again a sober man, and through their influence was aided and
encouraged, till he went back to his old employer, and was
again restored to himself and society, and from that time saw
that the only safety for man is total abstinence!

Mrs. Blanchard lived to see most of these changes, and in
them she thankfully acknowledged the goodness of her Father
in Heaven! And, dear reader, were they not clearly the result
of her own fully rewarded efforts for the good of others? It is
indeed the sweet blending of human agency with an Overuling
Providence, who manifestly adds His benignant smile
and blessing to benevolent actions, and a warm-hearted Philan
thropy!

Ought we to be satisfied to live in a world of mutual dependencies
without doing some deed to benefit our fellow-creatures?

There is something heroic and noble in the acts of
benevolence and kindness that seem to raise, and elevate and
dignify human nature.

Who would be one that no one can love—that no one can
thank? It is when we kindle the fire of gratitude in some
bosom, that the flame of love and happiness, burns brighest in our own.