The Lights and Shadows of Real Life. Arthur Timothy Shay
on with a stupid and bewildered air. When the drayman had departed, she turned to her husband, and said—
"'John, where did these things come from?"
"I bought them, Jane."
"You bought them?"
"Yes, I bought them."
"And pray, John, what did you buy them with?"
"With the quarter of a dollar you gave me on Monday."
"John!"
"It is true, Jane. With that quarter I went and joined the
Washington Total-Abstinence Society, and then went to work at Mr.
Lankford's. Here is the result of one week's work, besides this
silver," handing her all that remained, after making the purchases.
"O, John, John," the wife exclaimed, bursting into tears, "do not again mock my hopes. I cannot bear much more."
"In the strength of Him, Jane, who has promised to help us when we call upon Him, 'I will not disappoint the hopes I now revive,'" said Jarvis, slowly and solemnly.
The almost heart-broken wife and mother leaned her head upon the shoulder of her husband, and clung to his side with a newly-revived confidence, that she felt would not be disappointed, while the tears poured from her eyes like rain. But her true feelings we cannot attempt to describe—nor dare we venture to sketch further the scene we have introduced. The reader's imagination can do it more justice, and to him we leave that pleasing task, with only the remark, that Mrs. Jarvis's newly-awakened joys and hopes have not again been disappointed.
TIME, FAITH, ENERGY
"I DON'T see that I am so much better off," said Mr. Gordon, a man who had recently given up drinking. "I lost my situation on the very day I signed the pledge, and have had no regular employment since."
"But you would have lost your situation if you hadn't signed the pledge, I presume," said the individual to whom he was complaining.
"Yes. I lost it because I got drunk and spoiled my job. But to hear some temperance people talk, one who didn't know would be led to believe that, the very moment the pledge was signed, gold could be picked up in the streets. I must confess that I haven't found it so. Money is scarcer with me than it ever was; and though I don't spend a cent for myself, my family haven't a single comfort more than they had before."
"Though there's no disputing the fact that they would have many less comforts if you hadn't signed the pledge?"
"No, I suppose not. But I cannot help feeling discouraged at the way things go. If I had the same wages I received before I signed the pledge, I could be laying up money. But, as it is, it requires the utmost economy to keep from getting in debt."
"Still, you do manage to keep even?"
"Yes."
"On about half your former income?"
"A little over half. I used to get ten dollars a week. Now I manage, by picking up odd jobs here and there, to make about six."
"Then you are better off than you were before."
"I hardly see how you can make that out."
"Your family have enough to live upon—all they had before—and you have a healthier body, a calmer mind, and a clearer conscience. Isn't here something gained?"
"I rather think there is," replied Gordon, smiling.
"And I rather think you are a good deal better off than you were before. Isn't your wife happier?"
"O! yes. She's as cheerful as a lark all the day."
"And doesn't murmur because of your light wages?"
"No, indeed! not she. I believe if I didn't earn more than three dollars a week, and kept sober, she would make it do, somehow or other, and keep a good heart. It's wonderful how much she is changed!"
"And yet you are no better off? Ain't you better off in having a happy wife and a pleasant home, what I am sure you hadn't before?"
"You are right in that. I certainly had neither of them before. Oh! yes. I am much better off all around. I only felt a little despondent, because I can't get regular employment as I used to, and good wages; for now, if I had these, I could do so well."
"Be patient, friend Gordon; time will make all right. There are three words that every reformed man should write on the walls of his chamber, that he may see them every morning. They are 'Time, Faith, Energy.' No matter how low he may have fallen; no matter how discouraging all things around him may appear; let him have energy, and faith in time, and all will come out well at last."
Gordon went home, feeling in better heart than when he met the temperance friend who had spoken to him these encouraging words.
Henry Gordon, when he married, had just commenced business for himself, and went on for several years doing very well. He laid by enough money to purchase himself a snug little house, and was in a good way for accumulating a comfortable property, when the habit of dram-drinking, which he had indulged for years, became an over-mastering passion. From that period he neglected his business, which steadily declined. In half the time it took to accumulate the property he possessed, all disappeared—his business was broken up, and he compelled to work at his trade as a journeyman to support his family. From a third to a half of the sum he earned weekly, he spent in gratifying the debasing appetite that had almost beggared his family and reduced him to a state of degradation little above that of the brute. The balance was given to his sad-hearted wife, to get food for the hungry, half-clothed children.
Nor was this all. Debts were contracted which Gordon was unable to pay. One or two of his creditors, more exacting than the rest, seized upon his furniture and sold it to satisfy their claims, leaving to the distressed family only the few articles exempt by law.
Things had reached this low condition, when Gordon came home from the shop, one day, some hours earlier than usual. Surprised at seeing him, his wife said—
"What's the matter, Henry? Are you sick?"
"No!" he replied, sullenly, "I'm discharged."
"Discharged! For what, Henry?"
"For spoiling a job."
"How did that happen?" Mrs. Gordon spoke kindly, although she felt anxious and distressed.
"How has all my trouble happened?" asked Gordon, with unusual bitterness of tone. "I took a glass too much, and—and—"
"It made you spoil your job," said his wife, her voice still kind.
"Yes. Curse the day I ever saw a drop of liquor! It has been the cause of all my misfortunes."
"Why not abandon its use at once and for ever, Henry?"
"That is not so easily done."
"Hundreds have done it, and are doing it daily, and so may you. Only make the resolution, Henry. Only determine to break these fetters, and you are free. Let the time past, wherein you have wrought folly, and your family suffered more than words can express, suffice. Only will it, and there will be a bright future for all of us."
Tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Gordon while she made this appeal, although she strove hard to appear calm. Her husband felt a better spirit awaking within him. There was a brief struggle between appetite and the good resolution that was forming in his mind, and then the latter conquered.
"I will be free!" he said, turning towards the door through which he had a little while before entered, and hurriedly leaving the house.
The hour that passed from the time her husband went out until he returned, was one of most anxious suspense to Mrs. Gordon. Her hand trembled so that she could not hold her needle, and was obliged to lay aside the sewing upon which she was engaged, and go about some household employments.
"Mary, I have signed the pledge, if that will do any good," said Gordon, opening the door and coming in upon his wife with his pledge in his hand. "There," and he unrolled the paper and pointed to his name; "there is my signature, and here is the document."
He