Providence Patriot, Columbian Phenix

THE VICTIM.

And where is he?—not by her side,
Whose every want he loved to tend—
Not o'er those valleys, wandering wide,
Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend!

That form he loved, he marks no more,
Those scenes admired, no more shall see—
Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair,—but where is he?—N. Y.

At the close of a tranquil day in the autumn of 18—
I ascended the gentle eminence which overlooks the
pleasant village of W—,
situated in one of the most
delightful regions of Pennsylvania. I had accepted an
invitation from my companion,—a travelling artist—to
accompany him on a pleasant tour in search of health,
which a residence in the city during the intense heat of
summer had not a little impaired. My friend gazed
with all the admiration of painter upon the prospect
which lay spread out before us. The mountains which
environed the little town, rose dim and indistinct in the
distance—and a delicate blue haze, like the faintest
tints of a finished picture, had gathered over their irregular undulations, as they lay reposing in that mellow light which attends the gorgeous setting of an autumn sun.

The little village beneath our feet was surpassingly
neat and beautiful. Pretty white dwellings, with pleasant enclosures, were scattered along the broad street,
and here and there arose a mansion, indicating by
its
outward semblance of village splendor, the superior
condition of its occupants.

We alighted at the village
inn, and on the following morning my friend exhibited
specimens of
his art to the citizens, who chanced
to
drop in, and to whom our host had imparted the information that an artist had
arrived. Before noon the intelligence was
generally diffused,—and many a village
beauty gazed on the painter's efforts, with beaming eyes,
and a heart that beat joyfully in the anticipation of seeing familiar faces transferred to the canvass. Before
we retired to rest at night,
we
had arranged our plan
for a stay
of two months in the delightful borough of
W.

Our books were taken
from our trunks—our
portefeuilles arranged—and
our drawing, sketching and
painting materials placed in order for future service.

I was a privileged visitor to
my friend's apartment
while he was engaged in his avocations. I had, he
kindly believed, some conversational powers, and was
therefore considered as not inadequate to the task of
engaging the attention, and keeping alive the spirits of
his subjects. This employment became, at last, to be
peculiarly delightful. I look back, even now, with
memory chastened and mellowed by the lapse of time,
upon the sweet and ingenuous faces—the fair forms
and bright eyes—which lent a charm to the happiest
hours of a not uneventful life,

One afternoon I had been busying myself with
new and interesting work, and had neglected, until
quite a late hour, my visit at the artist's room.
When
I entered, a lively little girl ran towards me, and taking
hold of my hand, looked up
innocently into my
face
claiming with childish eagerness—“Pa is going
to
paint a new picture—and I am
going to have one—and
sits my little brother.” I led the happy child towards
the window, where my
friend was engaged at his easel.

A young gentleman was sitting at the window, with
mild light falling upon his countenance, and a gentle
autumn wind was dallying with his rich, dark hair.
A fair form leaned over his chair, and a small, white hand
was adjusting his truant curls. The face of the lady
was perfect. There were no ornaments about her
person. Her hair—a light brown—was parted over
high intellectual brow—and that happy glance of her
blue eye gave additional beauty to a mouth,
from
which, when mantled with a smile, the laughing dim-
ple seemed to run sporting along beneath the white,
transparent skin. The formalities of an introduction
were soon accomplished—and the next hour made
me
pleasantly acquainted with that happy husband and
wife, as if we had been on terms of intimacy for months.

Nearly every day, for two weeks, I met them in the artist's apartment. They were sitting, with their two
beautiful children, for a family group—and a lovely
group it was. I was invited
to visit them at their
village, in company with my friend. It was one of
those mansions whose unusual elegance had elicited our
admiration as we first entered the village. There were
visible, in every thing about it, evidences of refined
taste, and a cultivated life—wealth, without extrava-
gance, and elegant comforts, without baneful luxuries.

During our stay, the mansion of the Greys was my
principal resort, and marking the true enjoyment of
a happy family, constituted the purest source of my
enjoyment.

Two short years after leaving W.—
during which
the remembrance of its residents had often flitted
across my memory—it fell to my
lot to take a view of the magnificent valley of the Wyoming. It
is in my
memory. It was doubly so, now that the fresh green of
spring rested like an emerald mantle upon the land-
scape, and the exhalations from the early flowers were
like a tribute of sacrifice to the Power which
spread out a scene of unequalled beauty.

My first inquiry at the inn was for the Grey family
the happy circle where I had passed so many pleas-
ant moments. I was answered, with a sigh and a shrug.
by the village landlord.—“Alas!” said the publican,
“I am afraid you will find with them but a remnant of
their former happiness.”

I was informed, with all a
stage inn-keeper's minuteness, that the Greys had
removed, and now occupied a low-roofed cottage, di-
rectly over the way. I lost no time in crossing to the
cottage.
As my hand rested upon the little wicket
gate, I heard contention within. There were the voice
of violent command, and the subdued tone of tender
agonizing entreaty. I rapped at the door, and lifting
the latch, entered the apartment. I was confronted by
a countenance red and bloated, and grossly disfigured,
probably by the exercise of recent violent passion.

“What do you want?” said the man, and walking
towards me, he gazed at my features with the lack-
lustre glance of a maniac.

“What do you want in my
house?”

“You do not remember me,” said I, as his lineaments
struck upon me—“You
have
forgotten the itinerant
artist and his companion.”

Grey reeled to a chair. “Aye—yes—had our pictures
painted—my wife, and my children—oh yes! Is it you?
I will call them.” He arose to leave the room, but
stood in indecision upon an old chest of drawers. He
cried—“Frances—Mary—come, come in—we have
visitors!”

As he was yet drawling out these scarcely intelligible words, his wife entered. Her little girl followed,
while a door opened from an adjoining apartment—
alas! I hardly recognized her. Dry sorrow had fallen
with unconcealed dread. But for the red eyes swollen
with weeping. She shrunk from her deformed husband.
Wasted features, and an unearthly glare beamed from
her yet undimmed eye. “I drank her blood”—an unnatural paleness lingered
on her cheek. She looked the very picture of
hopeless despair.

The husband, with tottering steps, left the room. I referred to former
times. Mr. Grey begged to be excused, as he passed,
and his wife told me in a low voice, with what an awful calamity their devoted family had been visited. Intemperance
had been there. The husband—the father—in
two short years—had become a confirmed drunkard!

Affliction had gathered upon a happy circle, and unmixed sorrow had been poured upon the innocent. I
could hear no more. The contrast between our first
and second meeting, kept crowding upon my memory
—and I felt that in continuing the conversation, I must
be both imparting and receiving pain. I kissed the
little girl, whose hand was in mine—and as I opened
the door to retire, the light fell upon the Family
Group, through the green gauze with which it was
enveloped. There were the same curls which had been
curled forth by the artist—the former speaking eye,
which after inebriety had rendered dim and expression-
less,—There, too, were the beautiful mother and child,
And as I looked upon the pictured group, and then
upon the attenuate being before me, whose hand clasped
with all a mother's fondness, the opening bud in her
arms, whom poverty and sorrow awaited, my heart
melted—and, woman as I was,—the tear rose unbidden to my cheek, and I passed the threshold with an
aching heart.

This is no fancy-sketch. It is, alas! too true, as one at least, will testify, if, perchance, it should ever meet
his eye. It may be, that in his wanderings, the friend
of my youth may see this record of early scenes, and
recognize it, unsteadily as he would a portrait from his
own easel.

INTEMPERANCE!—How many cheeks hast thou
blanched with premature sorrow—how many bright
eyes dimmed—how many fond hearts broken!—
The intoxicating cup—the maddening bowl—alas!
what countless numbers have been rendered wretched
by thy influence—miserable by thy power—fiend-like
by thy control! O, young man—who hast health and
strength, reason and intellect—shun the drunkard's fate.
Look not upon the wine when it is red—when it giv-
eth its color in the cup—when it moveth itself aright.
Go not in thy folly, like an ox to the slaughter—as a
bird that hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it
is for his life!'