Part 23 (1/2)
One dark night, being in the neighborhood of Dudley, he had been drinking to excess, wandered out of the house, and staggered among the coalpits, exposed to fall into them, and be lost. He proceeded on till he fell, and rolled down the bank of the ca.n.a.l; but G.o.d, who is rich in mercy, had caused a stone to lie directly in his path, and the poor drunkard was stopped from rolling over into the water, where, by one turn more, he would have sunk into eternal ruin. His senses returned for a moment; he saw that if he attempted to stand, he would fall headlong into the ca.n.a.l, and crawled back again into the road. But this miraculous preservation had no effect upon him; he merely called it a lucky escape.
Once, after having indulged in many days of intemperance, being come a little to his senses, he began to reason with himself upon his folly--surrounded with blessings, yet abusing the whole--and in an angry, pa.s.sionate manner, he muttered, ”O, it's no use for me to repent; my sins are too great to be forgiven.” He had no sooner uttered these words, than a voice seemed to say, with strong emphasis, ”If thou wilt forsake thy sins, they shall be forgiven.” The poor man started at what he believed to be real sound, and turned round, but saw no one, and said to himself, ”I have been drinking till I am going mad.” He stood paralyzed, not knowing what to think, till relieved by a flood of tears, and then exclaimed, ”Surely, this is the voice of mercy, once more calling me to repentance.” He fell on his knees, and half suffocated by his feelings, cried out, ”G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner.” The poor wretch was broken-hearted; and now his besetting sin appeared more horrible than ever; but it must be conquered, or he must perish. Then commenced a contest more terrible than that of conflicting armies; the soul was at stake; an impetuous torrent was to be turned into an opposite course. He now began to search the Bible, which he had once despised. Here he saw that crimson and scarlet sins could be blotted out, and made white as snow; that the grace of G.o.d was sufficient. He refrained from intemperance, commenced family prayer, and hope again revived; but his deadly foe still pursued him, and he was again overcome.
Now his disgrace and sinfulness appeared worse than ever, and with melancholy feeling he cried out, in anguish of spirit, that he was doomed to eternal misery, and it was useless to try to avert his fate.
His cruel enemy took this opportunity to suggest to his mind that he had so disgraced himself, that it would be better to get rid of his life at once--frequently the end of drunkards. The razor was in his hand; but the Spirit of the Lord interposed, and the weapon fell to the ground.
Still his enemy pursued him, and seemed to have new power over his sin of intemperance. He would sometimes refrain for days and weeks, and then again he was as bad as ever. Hope seemed now to be lost; especially one day, when, after having been brought into great weakness through intemperance, death appeared to be very near, and his awful state more terrific than ever. Not a moment was to be lost; he cast himself once more at the footstool of his long-insulted Creator, and with an intensity of agony cried out, ”What profit is there in my blood when I go down to the pit? Shall the dust praise thee? Shall it declare thy truth? Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me; Lord, be thou my helper.”
He sunk down exhausted; he could say no more. That prayer was heard; and a voice from heaven seemed to reply, ”I will help thee; I have seen thy struggles, and I will now say to thine enemy, 'Hitherto thou hast come--but no further.'”
A physician was consulted as to the probability or possibility of medicine being rendered effectual to stop the disposition to intemperance. The poor man would have suffered the amputation of all his limbs, could so severe a method have freed him from his deadly habit, which, like a vulture, had fastened upon his very vitals. Eagerly did he begin to take the simple medicine prescribed--a preparation of steel--with earnest prayer to G.o.d for help in this last struggle for life; but faith and prayer proved the best of remedies; he persevered, and conquered; and be it said to the honor and glory of the Lord G.o.d Almighty, who sent his angel to whisper in the poor man's ear, ”I will help thee,” that from the latter end of September, 1816, to the present hour, nearly twenty years, _not so much as a spoonful of spirituous liquor, or wine of any description, has ever pa.s.sed the surface of that man's tongue_.
The above account of his own experience, was given by Mr. Hall, a merchant of Maidstone, Kent, at the anniversary of the British and Foreign Temperance Society, May, 1836.
Mr. Hall stated, in conclusion, that he had since been aiming to be useful to his fellow-men, and had written a Tract, the object of which was to call drunkards, and all sinners to repentance, of which more than one hundred thousand copies had been circulated. See Tract No. 349.
Has the reader a relative, friend, or neighbor, who drinks his daily drams, and is plunging into that awful gulf which yearly swallows up its thousands of victims? Let the above history suggest a duty, and encourage to its performance. This is not a solitary instance of victory obtained over powerful and raging appet.i.te. There is evidence that tens of thousands of persons in the United States, who were once intemperate, have become sober, useful citizens; and not a few of them ardent Christians. And this has been effected, not by despising and reproaching them, but chiefly through the divine blessing on _the kind personal influence of friends_, excited by no other motive than Christian benevolence and love of their fellow-men. The self-despair of the intemperate mind arises, in a great measure, from the conviction that he is an outcast from public respect and sympathy. He is moved by the language of kindness; and if suitably warned of his danger, and pointed to the way of escape, may be saved from ruin. Persuade him to refrain till reason resumes her sway, and the burning desire for stimulus has subsided. A few months will generally effect this great change. In his sober hours he often weeps over his folly, his ear is open to the voice of friends.h.i.+p, and he will yield to kind remonstrance--perhaps consent to place himself under the care of a temperate physician. _Go to him when alone_, with tenderness and love. Offer him such aid as is needed by himself or family. Give him the above history, in view of which none need despair. Bring him, if possible, to the house of G.o.d. Go to him again and again, till you obtain his pledge, to abstinence. Follow him with kindness. Support him in the struggle. Induce him _utterly to abandon all that can intoxicate, as his only safety_; wholly to-refrain from the _place_ and the _company_ where intoxicating drinks are used; and in dependence on Christ, humbly to offer the prayer, ”Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe.” Interest yourself in his welfare, and persevere till you gain the glorious triumph--the conquest of an _immortal mind_, that may diffuse blessings on every side in this life, and be a star in the Redeemer's crown of glory for ever.
PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.
THE EVENTFUL TWELVE HOURS;
OR,
THE DESt.i.tUTION AND WRETCHEDNESS OF A DRUNKARD.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Drunk's ill wife fainting]
”It is a sorrowful heart,” said I to myself, as I raked over the dying embers upon the hearth, to throw a transient gleam of light over my dreary cottage--”It is a sorrowful heart that never rejoices; and though I am somewhat in debt at the _Blue Moon_, and the landlady of the _Stag_ has over and over again said she'd never trust me, still she has not yet refused me, only at first. Many's the s.h.i.+lling I have paid them both, to be sure,” said I, rising involuntarily and going to the cupboard: ”I had better take a mouthful before I go out, for it's no use to wait any longer for Mary's return.”
Just at this moment the eldest of my two children inquired in a piteous tone, ”if that was mother.” ”Your mother? no,” said I; ”and what if it was, what then?” ”Because, father,” continued the child, ”I thought perhaps she had brought a loaf of bread home, for I am so hungry.”
”Hungry, child,” said I; ”then why did you not ask me before you went to bed?” ”Because, father, I knew there was no bread. When mother sent me to get a loaf this morning at the grocer's, Mrs. Mason said our last month's bill had not yet been settled, and she could not trust any more; and so we have only had a few potatoes. When mother went out to look for work, she promised to bring a loaf home very early.” ”Why, Jane,” said I, ”this is a new story--what, is there nothing at all in the house?”
”No, father, nothing; and that is not all, father; mother cried this morning about it when she went out; and though she never uses bad words, said something about cursed drink: she said she should be back before dark, and it has now been dark a long time, and hark, how it rains.”
The fire flickered up a little, and at this moment the latch of the door clicked; I peeped up through the gloom, a pang of conscious shame stealing through my frame; but it was not my wife, as I of course supposed--it was Mrs. Mason. I was surprised and confused. ”Where is your wife, James?” said she, in a mild, firm tone. ”Is that mother?”
said my child again, in a rather sleepy tone; ”I am so glad you are come, I am so hungry.” ”That child,” said I, ”has gone to bed without her supper to-night,” fumbling about at the same time upon the mantel-piece for a bit of candle, which I could not find. ”Yes,” said Mrs. Mason, very gravely, ”and without its dinner too, I fear; but where is your wife, James? for I am come to see whether she brought any thing home with her for herself and family; for I could not feel comfortable after I had refused your child a loaf this morning, just as I know the refusal was.” I now stammered out something about ”sorry,” and ”ashamed,” and ”bad times.” ”But where _is_ your wife, James?” ”She is, perhaps, at neighbor Wright's,” said I, briskly, glad to catch an opportunity of a minute's retreat from my present awkward position; ”I'll just step and see. Jane, get up, child.” ”No, James,” said Mrs.
Mason, in a tone not to be misunderstood; ”no, James, I wish she was sitting by their comfortable fireside; I called in there just now, as I came along, to pay a little bill, and they spoke very kindly of your wife, and hoped she might be enabled to rub through this winter--but I will call again in half an hour: Mary will have come home, I hope, by that time.”
The door closed upon her, and I remained in a kind of half stupor; my month's unpaid bill, my public-house scores, my dest.i.tute home; these and a thousand things connected with my situation, kept me musing in no very comfortable frame of mind, when the latch again clicked, the door opened, and through the half gleam of one flickering flame, I just caught the glimpse of a form, that in the next instant, cold and wet, sunk lifeless in my arms. It was Mary. As she sunk down upon me, she just said, with a shudder, ”Cold.” Shall I stop to tell you of the agony of my mind? Shall I endeavor to relate a portion of the thoughts that chased each other with a comet's rapidity through my brain; the remembrance of our past comforts, and our happiness too? Recovering after the lapse of an instant, I called, ”Jane, Jane, get up, and make haste; your mother is come home, and is very ill and faint; get a light”--she was quickly at my side--”get a light,” for the little unfriendly flame had ceased to burn.
”But where are you, mother?” said Jane. ”Jane, child,” said I, angrily, ”your mother is here; get a light directly.” ”We haven't a bit of candle, father.” ”Then get some wood out of the back room--break up some little bits--O, do make haste.” ”We haven't a bit of wood, father.”
”Child, child--” ”Yes, father, but we haven't any.” My poor wife at this moment gave a kind of sob, and with a slight struggle, as if for breath, sunk heavier in my arms. I tried to hold her up in an easier posture, calling to her in a tender manner, ”Mary, my dear Mary;” but my sensations and my conscience almost choked me. In this moment of anguish and perplexity, my wife, for aught I knew, dead in my arms--without light, without fuel, without food, without credit, Mrs. Mason returned.
Jane had managed to make the fire burn up, just so as to disclose our wretched situation. ”Your wife ill?” said Mrs. Mason, hastily stepping forward--”very ill, I fear, James, and wet and cold--run hastily, James,” reaching herself a broken chair, ”and call in Mrs. Wright, and place your wife on my lap.” This I immediately did, and as I opened the door to go out, I heard Mrs. Mason ask Jane to get a light--and shame made me secretly rejoice, that I had escaped the humiliation, for the present, of confessing that we had not even a bit of a candle in the house.
Mrs. Wright was preparing for supper: they were regular and early folks, and my heart sunk within me when, in my hurry, I unceremoniously opened the door--I mean the contrast I saw between their cottage and my own; a clean cloth was laid, with spoons, and basins, and white, clean plates, and knives and forks, with every other necessary comfort. Wright was sitting with his back towards the fire, with a candle in one hand and a book in the other, reading to his wife, who was leaning forward, and just in the act of taking a pot off the hanger, in which it would be easy to guess, was something warm for supper. The fire and candle gave a cheerful light, and every thing looked ”comfortable.” ”My wife is taken very ill,” said I, ”and Mrs. Mason, who has just stepped in, begged me to call in your help.” ”Mrs. Mason at your house now?” said Mrs. Wright; ”come, Wright, reach me my cloak, and let us make haste and go.” We were all at the door, when Mrs. Wright said, ”What, come to fetch us without a lantern? and ours is at the glazier's. What are we to do?” ”The distance is very short,” I said. ”Yes,” said Wright, ”but long enough for an accident; how I do like necessaries;” adding, in an undertone, as he pulled his wife along, something about ”enough for _tavern debts_, but nothing to buy _necessaries_.”
On opening my cottage door, I called out--for no one was in the room--”Mrs. Mason, are you up stairs? how is Mary? here is Mrs. Wright; shall I come up?” No one answered, and Mrs. Wright pa.s.sed me, going softly up stairs, saying, in a low tone, as she ascended, ”James, you had better make up a good fire, and get some water heated as fast as you can.” Again I was aghast. ”Get some water heated,” said I; and the wretchedness of our bedless bed and furnitureless room crossed my mind at the same time. Mrs. Mason, at this moment, leaned over the banisters, and said, in a soft voice, ”James, fetch the doctor, and lose no time; make haste, for life may depend on it.” My wretchedness seemed now complete; the very fire of delirium and confusion seemed to seize upon my brain; and hastily calling out to Jane to attend upon Mr. Wright, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up my hat, and pushed by my neighbor without heeding some inquiries he had begun about the necessaries that were then so much required.
It rained, and was very dark; the road to the doctor's was not the best, and he lived rather more than a mile off; it was impossible to proceed faster than a slow, cautious walk. I was now alone, and, in much bitterness of spirit, began to upbraid myself, and those companions of my folly who had led me on to habits that had first disgraced, and then brought me to severe ruin. With what vivid brightness did the first year of our marriage, its comforts and its hopes, again pa.s.s before me; and when my mind led me on through all its changing scenes, up to the moment when Mrs. Mason, in her low, subdued tone of voice, called to me to fetch the doctor, and to mind I lost no time; I could only realize my wife as dying, and myself the cruel tyrant who had, by neglect, ill usage, and partial starvation, brought her to an untimely end.