The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

"Down he went to the Harmony House;—I was there when he came in. It would have done your hearts good to have seen with what delight he sipped the new beverage,—and to have heard him say, as I did, to Graves;—'I had half resolved to join the temperance society this day,—but your Sub-Treasury has entirely shaken my resolution. I shall never be able to do it now in this world, nor in the next either, if I can only get you in the same place with me to make Sub-Treasury.' And then he laughed with great glee. One, of course, did not satisfy him, nor two, nor three. Before dinner-time he was gloriously drunk, and went staggering home as usual. I could not resist the inclination to see a little of the fun when he presented himself to his wife, whose fond hopes were all in the sky again. Like a bird, she had sung about the house during the morning, her heart so elated that she could not prevent an outward expression of the delight she felt. As the hour drew near for her husband's return, a slight fear would glance through her mind, quickly dismissed, however;—for she could not entertain the idea for a moment that his newly-formed resolution could possibly be so soon broken.

"At last the hour for his accustomed return arrived. She heard him open the door—and sprung to meet him. One look sufficed to break her heart. Statue-like she stood for a moment or two, and then sunk senseless to the floor.

"Other matters calling me away, I staid only to see this delightful little scene, and then hurried back to the Harmony House, to see if the run was kept up. Customers came in a steady stream, and crowded the bar of our worthy friend, whose heart was as light as a feather. I saw at least half a dozen come in and sip a glass of Sub-Treasury, who I knew had not tasted liquor for months. I marked them; and shall be about their path occasionally. But the best thing of all that I saw, was a reformer break his pledge. He was, years ago, a noted drunkard, but had been a reformed man for four years. In that time he had broken up several grog-shops, by reforming all their customers, and had got, I suppose, not less than five or six hundred persons to sign the pledge. I had, of course, a particular grudge against him. It was an exceedingly warm day, and he was uncommonly thirsty. He was reading the paper, and came across the 'Sub-Treasury' advertisement.

"'Ha! ha! What is this, I wonder?' he said, laughing; some new trick of the enemy, I suppose.'

"'Look here, what is this Sub-Treasury stuff, that Graves advertises this morning?' he said, to a young fellow, a protege of mine, who was more than a match for him.

"'A kind of temperance beverage.' I put it into the fellow's head to say.

"'Temperance beverage?'

"'Yes. It's made of lemonpeel, and one stuff or other, mixed up with pounded ice. He's got a tremendous run for it. I know half a dozen teetotallers who get it regularly. I saw three or four there to-day, at one time.'

"'Indeed!'

"'It's a fact. Come, won't you go down and try a glass? It's delightful.'

"'Are you in earnest about it?'

"'Certainly I am. It's one of the most delicious drinks that has been got up this season.'

"'I don't like to be seen going into such a place.'

"'O, as to that, there is a fine back entrance leading in from another street, that no one suspects, and a private bar into the bargain. We can go in and get a drink, and nobody will ever see us.'

"'Well, I don't care if I do,' said the temperance man, 'for I am very dry.'

"'You're a gone gozzling, my old chap,' I said, as I saw him moving off. 'I thought I'd get you before long.' Sure enough, the moment he took the first draught his doom was sealed. His former desire for liquor came back on him with irresistible power; and before nightfall, he was so drunk that he went staggering along the street, to the chagrin and consternation of the teetotallers; but to the infinite delight of your humble servant.

"And so saying, that malignant fiend, who, while he inhabited a material body, was called old Billy Adams, stepped down from the still. Then there arose three loud and long cheers, for Graves, and his 'Sub-Treasury,' that echoed and re-echoed wildly through that gloomy prison-house.

"You're much thought of down there, you see," continued Riley, with a cold grin of irony.—"Adams says, that if this temperance movement aint stopped soon, they will have to get you among them, and make you head devil in that department. How would you like that, old chap, say? How would you like to go now?"

As Riley said this, he threw himself forward, and clasped his thin, bony fingers around the neck of the rum-seller, with a strong grip.

"How would you like to go now, ha?" he screamed fiercely in his ear, clenching his hand tighter and still tighter, while his hot breath melted over the face of Graves in a suffocating vapour. The struggles of the rum-seller were vigorous and terrible—but the dying man held on with a superhuman strength. Soon everything around grew confused, and though still distinctly conscious, it was a consciousness in the mind of the tavern-keeper of the agonies of death. This became so terrible to him that he resolved on one last and more vigorous effort for life. It was made, and the hands of the dying man broke loose. Instantly starting to his feet, the wretched dealer in poison for both the bodies and souls of men, found himself standing in the centre of his own parlour, with the sweat rolling from his face in large drops.

"Merciful Heaven! And is it indeed a dream?" he ejaculated, panting with terror and exhaustion.

"A dream—and yet not all a dream," he added, in a few moments, in a sad, low tone.—"In league with hell against my fellow-men! Can it indeed be true? But away! away such thoughts!"

Such thoughts, however, could not be driven away. They crowded upon his mind at every avenue, and pressed inward to the exclusion of every other idea.

"But I am not in league with evil spirits to do harm to my fellow-men. I do not wish evil to any one," he argued.

"You are in such evil consociation," whispered a voice within him. "There are but two great parties in the world—the evil and the good. No middle ground exists. You are with one of these—working for the good of your fellow-men, or for their injury. One of these great parties acts in concert with heaven, the other with hell. On the side of one stand arrayed good spirits—on the side of the other evil spirits. Can good spirits be on your side? Would they, for the sake of gain, take the food out of the mouths of starving children? Would they put allurements in a brother's way to entice him to ruin? No! Only in such deeds can evil spirits take delight."

"Then I am on the side of hell?"

"There are but two parties. You cannot be on the side of heaven, and do evil to your neighbour."

"Dreadful thought! In league with infernal spirits to curse the human race! Can it be possible Am I really in my senses?"

For nearly half an hour did Graves pace the floor backwards and forwards, his mind in a wild fever of excitement. In vain did he try, over and over again, to argue the point against the clearest and strongest convictions of reason. Look at it as he would, it all resolved itself into that one bold and startling position, that he was in league with hell against his fellow-men.

"And now, what shall I do?" was the question that arose in his mind.

"Give up my establishment?"

At that moment, Sandy, the bar-tender, opened the parlour door, and said with a broad smile—

"The Sub-Treasury is working wonders again! I'm overrun, and want help."

"I can't come down, just now, Sandy. I'm not very well. You will have to get along the best you can," Graves replied.

"I don't know what I shall do then, sir: I can't make 'em half as fast as they are called for."

"Let half of the people go away then," was the cold reply. "I can't help you any more to-day."

Sandy thought, as he withdrew, that the "old man" must have suddenly lost his senses. He was confirmed in this idea before the next morning.

It was past twelve o'clock when the run of custom was over, and Sandy closed up for the night. As soon as this was done, Mr. Graves came in for the first time since dinner.

"It's been a glorious day for business," Sandy said, rubbing his hands. "I've taken in more, than thirty dollars. Lucifer himself must have put the idea into your head."

"No doubt he did," was the grave reply.

Sandy stared at this.

"Didn't you tell me that Bill Riley had joined the temperance society?"

"Yes, I did," replied the bar-keeper.

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure, I was told so by one that knew."

"I only wish I was certain of it," was the reply, made half abstractedly. And then the dealer leaned down upon the bar and remained in deep thought for a very long time, to the still greater surprise of Sandy, who could not comprehend what had come over his employer.

"Aint you well, Mr. Graves," he at length asked, breaking in upon the rum-seller's painful reverie.

"Well!" he ejaculated, rousing up with a start. "No, I am not well."

"What is the matter, sir?"

"I'm sick," was the evasive response.

"How, sick?" was Sandy's persevering inquiry.

"Sick at heart! O, dear! I wish I'd been dead before I opened a grog-shop!"—And the countenance of Mr. Graves changed its quiet, sad expression, to one of intense agony.

Sandy looked at the tavern-keeper with an air of stupid astonishment for some moments, unable to comprehend his meaning. It was evident to his mind that Mr. Graves had suddenly become crazed about something. This idea produced a feeling of alarm, and he was about retiring for counsel and assistance, when the tavern-keeper roused himself and said:

"When did you see Bill Riley, Sandy?"

"I saw him yesterday."

"Are you certain?" in a quick, eager tone.

"O yes. I saw him going along on the other side of the street with two or three fellows that didn't look no how at all like rum-bruisers."

"I was afraid he was dead," Mr. Graves responded to this, breathing more freely.

"Dead! Why should you think that?" inquired Sandy, still more (sic) mistified.

"I had reason for thinking so," was the evasive reply. A pause of some, moments ensued, when the bar-keeper said—

"I shall have to be stirring bright and early to-morrow morning."

"Why so?"

"We're out of sugar and lemons both. That Sub-Treasury runs on them 'ere articles strong."

"Confound the Sub-Treasury!" Mr. Graves ejaculated, with a strong and bitter emphasis. Sandy stood again mute with astonishment, staring into the tavern-keeper's face.

"Sandy," Mr. Graves at length said in a calm, resolute tone, "my mind is made up to quit selling liquor."

"Quit selling liquor, sir!" exclaimed Sandy, more astonished than ever. "Quit selling liquor just at this time, when you have made such a hit?"

"Yes, Sandy, I'm going to quit it. I'm afraid that we rum-sellers are on the side of hell."

"I never once supposed that we were on the side of heaven," the bar-keeper replied, half smiling.

"Then what side did you suppose we were on?"

"O, as to that, I never gave the matter a thought. Only, it never once entered my head that we could claim much relationship with heaven. Heaven feeds the hungry and clothes the naked. But we take away both food and clothing, and give only drink. There is some little difference in this, now one comes to think about it."

"Then I am right in my notion."

"I'm rather afraid you are, sir. But that's a strange way of thinking."

"Aint it the true way?"

"Perhaps so."

"I am sure so, Sandy! And that's what makes me say that I'm done selling rum."

The tavern-keeper did not tell all that was in his mind. He said nothing of his dream, nor of that horrible idea of going to the rum-seller's hell, and becoming a devil, filled with the delight of rendering mankind wretched by deluging the land with drunkenness.

"What are you going to do then?" asked Sandy.

"Why, the first thing is to quit rum-selling."

"But what then?"

"I'm not decided yet;—but shall enter into some kind of business that I can follow with a clear conscience."

"You'll sell out this stands I suppose. The goodwill is worth three or four hundred dollars."

"No, Sandy, I will not!" was the tavern-keeper's positive, half indignant reply. "I'll have nothing more to do with the gain of rum-selling. I have too much of that sin on my conscience already."

"Somebody will come right in, as soon as you move out. And I don't see why you should give any one such an advantage for nothing."

"I'm not going to move out, Sandy."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Why, one thing—I'm going to shut up this devil's man-trap. And while I can keep possession of the property, it shall never be opened as a dram-shop again."

"What are you going to do with your liquors, Mr. Graves? Sell 'em?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Burn 'em. Or let 'em run in the gutter."

"That I should call a piece of folly."

"You may call it what you please. But I'll do it notwithstanding. I've received my last dollar for rum. Not another would I touch for all the world!"

A slight shudder passed through the tavern-keeper's body, as he said this, occasioned by the vivid recollection of some fearful passage in his late dream.

"You'd better give the liquors to me, Mr. Graves. It would be a downright sin to throw 'em in the gutter, when a fellow might make a good living out of 'em."

"No, Sandy. Neither you nor anybody else shall ever make a man drunk with the liquor now in this house. It shall run in the gutter. That's settled!"

When the sun arose next morning, Harmony House was shorn of its attractions as a drinking establishment. All the signs, with their deceptive and alluring devices, were taken down—the shutters closed, and everything indicating its late use removed, excepting a strong smell of liquor, great quantities of which had been poured into the gutters.

In the course of a few weeks, the house was again re-opened as a hatter-shop, Mr. Graves having resumed his former honest business, which he still follows, well patronized by the temperance men, among whom are Joseph Randolph, and William Riley, the former reclaimed through his active instrumentality.

HOW TO CURE A TOPER

[THE following story, literally true in its leading particulars, was told by a reformed man, who knew W—very well. In repeating it, I do so in the first person, in order to give it more effect.]

I was enjoying my glass of flip, one night, at the little old "Black Horse" that used to stand a mile out of S.—, (I hadn't joined the great army of teetotallers then,) when a neighboring farmer came in, whose moderation, at least in whisky toddies, was not known unto all men. His name was W—. He was a quiet sort of a man when sober, lively and chatty under the effect of a single glass, argumentative and offensively dogmatic after the second toddy, and downright insulting and quarrelsome after getting beyond that number of drinks. We liked him and disliked him on these accounts.

On the occasion referred too, he passed through all these changes, and finally sunk off to sleep by the warm stove. Being in the way, and also in danger of tumbling upon the floor, some of us removed him to an old settee, where he slept soundly, entertaining us with rather an unmusical serenade. There were two or three mischievous fellows about the place, and one of them suggested it would be capital fun to black W—'s face, and "make a darkey of him." No sooner said than done. Some lamp-black and oil were mixed together in an old tin cup, and a coat of this paint laid over the face of W—, who, all unconscious of what had been done, slept on as soundly and snored as loudly as ever. Full two hours passed away before he awoke. Staggering up to the bar, he called for another glass of whisky toddy, while we made the old bar-room ring again with our peals of laughter.

"What are you all laughing at?" he said, as he became aware that he was the subject of merriment, and turning his black face around upon the company as he spoke.

"Give us Zip Coon, old fellow!" called out one of the "boys" who had helped him to his beautiful mask.

"No! no! Lucy Long! Give us Lucy Long!" cried another.

"Can't you dance Jim Crow? Try it. I'll sing the 'wheel about and turn about, and do jist so.' Now begin."

And the last speaker commenced singing Jim Crow.

W—neither understood nor relished all this. But the more angry and mystified he became, the louder laughed the company and the freer became their jests. At last, in a passion, he swore at us lustily, and leaving the barroom, in high dudgeon, took his horse from the stable and rode off.

It was past eleven o'clock. The night was cold, and a ride of two miles made W—sober enough to understand that he had been rather drunk, and was still a good deal "in for it;" and that it wouldn't exactly do for his wife to see him just as he was. So he rode a mile past his house,—and then back again, at a slow trot, concluding that by this time the good woman was fast asleep. And so she was. He entered the house, crept silently up stairs, and got quietly into bed, without his better half being wiser therefor.

On the next morning, Mrs. W—awoke first. But what was her surprise and horror, upon rising up, to see, instead of her lawful husband, what she thought a strapping negro, as black as charcoal, lying at her side. Her first impulse was to scream; but her presence of mind in this trying position, enabled her to keep silence. You may be sure that she didn't remain long in such a close contact with Sir Darkey. Not she! For, slipping out of bed quickly, but noiselessly, she glided from the room, and was soon down stairs in the kitchen, where a stout, two-fisted Irish girl was at work preparing breakfast.

"Oh! dear! Kitty!" she exclaimed, panting for breath, and looking as pale as a ghost, "have you seen any thing of Mr. W—, this morning?"

"Och! no. But what ails ye? Ye're as white as a shate?"

"Oh! mercy! Kitty. You wouldn't believe it, but there's a monstrous negro in my room!"

"Gracious me! Mrs. W—, a nager?"

"Yes, indeed, Kitty!" returned Mrs. W—, trembling in every limb. "And worse and worse, he's in my bed! I just 'woke up and thought it was Mr. W—by my side But, when I looked over, I saw instead of his face, one as black as the stove. Mercy on me! I was frightened almost to death."

"Is he aslape?" asked Kitty.

"Yes, sound asleep and snoring. Oh! dear! What shall we do? Where in the world is Mr. W—? I'm afraid this negro has murdered him."

"Och! the blasted murtherin' thafe!" exclaimed Kitty, her organ of combativeness, which was very large, becoming terribly excited. "Get into mistress's bed, and the leddy there herself, the omadhoun! The black, murtherin' thafe of a villain!"

And Kitty, thinking of no danger to herself, and making no calculation of consequences, seized a stout hickory clothes pole that stood in one corner of the kitchen, and went up stairs like a whirlwind, banging the pole against the door, balusters, or whatever came in its way. The noise roused W—from his sleep, and he raised up in bed just as Kitty entered the room.

"Oh! you murtherin' thafe of a villain!" shouted Kitty, as she caught sight of his black face, pitching into him with her pole, and sweeping off his night-cap, at the imminent risk of taking his head with it.

"Hallo!" he cried, not at all liking this strange proceeding, "are you mad?"

"Mad is it, ye thafe!" retorted Kitty, who did not recognize the voice, and taking a surer aim this time with her pole, brought him a tremendous blow alongside of the head, which knocked him senseless.

Mrs. W—who was at the bottom of the stairs, heard her husband's exclamation, and, knowing his voice, came rushing up, and entered the room in time to see Kitty's formidable weapon come with terrible force against his head. Before the blow could be repeated, for Kitty, ejaculating her "murtherin' thafe of a villain!" had lifted the pole again, Mrs. W—threw her arms around her neck, and cried, "Don't, don't, Kitty, for mercy's sake!" It's Mr. W—, and you've killed him!"

"Mr. W—indade!" retorted Kitty, indignantly, struggling to free herself. "Is Mr. W—a thafe of a nager, ma'am?"

But even Kitty's eyes, as soon as they took the pains to look more closely, saw that it was indeed all as the mistress had said. W—had fallen over on his face, and his head and white neck were not to be mistaken.

The pole dropped from Kitty's hands, and, with the exclamation, "Och! murther!" she turned and shot from the room, with as good a will as she had entered it.

The blow which W—received was severe, breaking through the flesh and bruising and lacerating his ear badly. He recovered very soon, however, and, as he arose up, caught sight of himself in a looking glass that hung opposite. We may be sure that it took all parties, in this exciting and almost tragical affair, some time to understand exactly what was the matter. W—'s recollection of the loud merriment that had driven him from the "Black Horse" on the previous night, when it revived, as it did pretty soon, explained all to him, and set him to talking in a most unchristian manner.

Poor Kitty was so frightened at what she had done that she gathered up her "duds" and fled instanter, and was never again seen in that neighborhood.

As for W—, he was cured of his nocturnal visits to the "Black Horse," and his love of whisky toddy. Some months afterwards he espoused the temperance cause, and I've heard him tell the tale myself, many a time, and laugh heartily at the figure he must have cut, when Kitty commenced beating him for a "thafe of a nager."