Having returned to the hotel at which I was staying I retired
immediately to bed. I slept but little during the night, my fancy having
been kept awake by the expressive interview of the preceding evening.
The eventful narrative of Frederick Charlston's career was ever present
to my mind, producing feelings akin to those of an experienced reality.
But the most striking characteristic was the singular dream to which I
have alluded. Dreams in general are nothing more than the echoes of the
soul, or the breathings of imagination when the consciousness of the
mind is in a latent state. Some dreams however, may be the productions
of a spiritual agency photographing as it were through the electric
telegraph of the soul the impressions of the real event upon the mind of
the person who is absent, causing strange forebodings to loom up in the
horizon of imagination. Be this as it may, it is a well known fact, that
dreams have been occasionally verified. Thousands of them, however, are
by the dreamer construed to suit circumstances. But the millions of
these visions that arise nightly from the bed-chambers of the world are
nothing more than the flickerings of the mind, at random, and like
vapor, arising into the atmosphere of the soul, frequently assuming a
variety of fantastic forms as a metamorphoses of preconceived ideas.
Immediately on hearing of the arrival of the English Mail I hurried down
to the Post-Office, and inquired of the gentleman in attendance if there
were anything for Frederick Charlston. Shuffling over a pile of letters
he drew one out and handed it to me. It was mounted with deep mourning,
and heavily sealed with black sealing wax. I was startled at the
appearance thereof. I took but a momentary gaze and requested him to
forward it by the next mail to Hamilton. I felt an anxious curiosity to
know the contents of the Black-Sealed Letter. I felt certain that some
of Frederick's relatives had recently died. The aspect of his dream more
forcibly impressed itself upon my mind. But let a few days more pass
away, and the mystery will be solved.
At the end of the second week after this occurrence I went up to
Hamilton: and shortly after my arrival called upon the Upholsterer. He
told me that Frederick had not been at the workshop during the past few
days, owing to an attack of illness. He directed me to the hotel at
which Frederick was boarding. I went there, and was by the innkeeper
shown into a bedroom, in which he was reclining upon a couch reading a
newspaper. On seeing me he sprang forward and grasped my hand
affectionately in his own, and began sobbing aloud, the tears gushing
from his eyes. For a few seconds I stood motionless in sad bewilderment
of mind, feeling assured that something of a serious nature had
occurred. At length I ventured to express a desire to know what had
happened. He then drew from his pocket a letter, and handed it to me. I
recognized it at once as the "_Black-Sealed-Letter_." I opened it with
trembling hand, and read as follows:
"London, England, Sept. 20th, 1870.
"Dear Cousin Frederick.--I received your letter of the 28th ultimo on
the 18th inst., and was sorry indeed to hear of your illness, from
which I hope you have completely recovered. It gives me pleasure
however to know that you will again be amongst us. No doubt you will
feel happy to see your old friends again. But short as the time has
been since you left, you will find on your return that eventful
changes have taken place. Our life on earth is only a struggle with
itself, too frequently surrounded with adverse circumstances, that
are prolific with sad events, and gloomy with suffering and
disappointment. And were it not that the Star of Bethlehem still
shines in the firmament of Heaven the glory of this world would
transmit but a dim light upon the soul of the Christian life. Then be
prepared, my dear friend, to endure the ills of adversity with a
noble heart. Although a dark shadow may fall suddenly upon your
earthly vision, at once direct your eyes in faith towards the Star of
Celestial Glory; and the light of Heaven will dispel the darkness,
even, were it the shadow of Death.
"You desired of me to give particular information respecting Clara
Hazeldon. In accordance with your request I suppose I must do so.
Through disappointment, in hoping against hope, she became low
spirited, and failed considerably in health; and, on hearing of your
intended adventure in the Red River expedition, relinquished every
hope of your return, and shortly afterwards became the wife of
Charles Holstrom.
"Your child is still in your father's family, and is a
bright-eyed-healthy-looking boy, resembling you very much indeed. At
the request of your relatives, but with considerable reluctance on
my part, I now undertake to inform you of an event which has recently
occurred in your own family. They consider it better to make it known
to you by letter than allow the reality unexpectedly to force itself
upon your mind at your return.
"On the 20th day of July last, your mother, by a fall down the
stairway, unfortunately got one of her limbs broken. It was
considered necessary to have it amputated. Mortification set in
shortly afterwards, eventually proving fatal. At an early hour on the
morning of the 25th, only five days after the occurrence, your dear
mother breathed her last, surrounded by her weeping relatives. She
was sensible to within a few hours of her death. Her dying words
conferred a blessing upon you. She died happy, and with full
assurance of a blessed immortality.
"Striking as this announcement must be to your mind, I trust that
with the help of God you will be enabled to bear up under the severe
affliction. Sooner or later we must all die; and by what means we
know not. Then let this event be another warning to us to prepare
effectually for our exit to eternity. May God bless you, my dear
friend. May Christ be your spiritual Physician, to pour the Balm of
Gilead upon your troubled soul; and through Divine power may you ere
long be conducted back in health and safety to your old home.
"Your friends join in expressing their love to you.
"I remain, dear Frederick, your affectionate cousin.
"William A. Thornton."
Appended to the above letter was the following note from Eliza,
Frederick's eldest sister:
"London, Sept. 20th, 1870.
"My Dear Brother,--The sad events that have occurred since your
departure have thrown a deep gloom over our household. The death of
our dear mother has almost broken our hearts. I hope in God you will
be enabled to endure the severe affliction. Call upon Christ, and he
will assist you to bear up your weight of sorrow. It is some comfort
however to know that mother died the happy death of a Christian. I
trust her spirit is now reaping the heavenly harvest of her spiritual
labors upon earth. Father is terribly changed since her death. I
thought he would assuredly die under the heavy affliction. No doubt
your absence has had a tendency to augment his grief. He has become
fearfully melancholy, and of late has had recourse to drinking. I
dread the consequences; therefore I intreat you to come home as soon
as possible. Perhaps your influence may have a soothing effect upon
his mind; and prevent him from further indulgence.
"Oh, how glad we shall all feel, even in our sorrow, to see you
again, dear brother. Richard has turned out to be a fine boy; you
will be happy to see him. Cousin William has acquainted you with
other facts. Trust to God for the consolation of your mind. We all
join in love to you. With a heavy heart and in tears I have written
these few lines. I am, dear brother, your affectionate sister.
"Eliza Charlston."
"These are sad news indeed," said I, returning the letter to Frederick.
"Very, very sad, indeed, almost insufferable!" said he.
Having paused for a few moments he continued. "My dream has been
forcibly verified. How overwhelming is the reality that my poor mother
is no more. Had I been present when she died it would have given some
consolation to my soul. But, oh! to think of the manner in which I fled
from her presence, and also from my happy home: to think of the
sufferings both mentally and physically she must have endured: to think
of the unfortunate circumstances of her death; to think that I, her
favorite son, was absent in her dying hours, without an opportunity of
confessing my errors and asking her forgiveness: to think of these
alone, is sufficient to break my very heart. Nor is this all. She to
whose loving heart I pledged my affections as a bond of an eternal
union, has become the life-companion of another. But I reproach her not
for so doing. She was faithful; I alone was false. She had hoped against
hope; and not until she had despaired of my return did she seek out a
help-mate and home for herself. It is only another unfortunate
circumstance of my life. I feel deeply the wound it has inflicted; but I
will not avenge it. My life is apparently a life of troubles, and like
Job of old I am ready to curse the day of my birth. I, myself, may be
the author of it all; but it seems to me that some demon, like the evil
spirit of King Saul, has taken possession of life's-citadel, and strews
my pathway with pandoric ills."
"My dear sir, I do really sympathise with you in your affliction," said
I. "But under such trying circumstances confide in God and he will be
your friend indeed."
"But for me there is no Balm in Gilead: there is no physician there," he
exclaimed. "As a fallen sinner I again sought for balm in the Vineyard
of Satan. I had recourse to the demon-wizard of intoxication, and drank
from his enchanted bowl. It was impossible to live and do otherwise; for
elsewhere I could find no consolation for my grief. I drank deeply for
two days and two nights after having received the letter. I then resumed
my work: and with a saddened heart and a weakened constitution, labored
until three days ago, when, I again broke the bonds of my resolutions.
To-day I am sobering off myself: and when my bottle is emptied of its
contents, _I shall drink no more_."
Saying this, he took from his trunk a bottle half-full with liquor.
"Look here," said he. "You see how short a distance is now between me
and total-abstinence. But, my dear friend, I will not insult your
feelings by tasting of it in your presence."
Therewith he returned the bottle to its place. In answer to my enquiries
he stated that he still intended to return to England in December, and
for that purpose had resolved to economise his time and means, and never
taste of liquor again.
"Ah," said he, "liquor and evil company have been my ruin. Through the
influence of bad companions I first broke the pledge when at Tiverton:
and by doing so at that time, I upset all my projected designs. I have
been re-building and upsetting ever since; but somehow my superstructure
appears to have no solid basis. However, I am determined to try once
more and make amends for the past."
I told him that I intended in the course of a few days to go on as far
as New London, and would be absent at least a month. I would then return
by way of Hamilton, and accompany him as far as Montreal, on my way
home: it being about the time he purposed leaving for England. He
appeared to be delighted with the idea of so doing, and heartily thanked
me for the kindness I shewed towards him.
On the following morning he resumed his work apparently with renewed
cheerfulness and vigor; and during the ten days I remained in Hamilton
he improved rapidly in both body and spirit. We met together every
evening and passed an hour or two very pleasantly, and I may add,
profitably. He never once tasted of liquor during that time; but seemed
more determined than ever to resist its temptation. I advised him to
remove to some private boarding house; where he would be less exposed to
the influence of liquor and evil company: but he seemed unwilling to
comply therewith on account of his intended removal in so short a time.
On the morning of that day on which I left Hamilton I called at the
shop, where he was vigorously at work. On bidding him good-bye, I
expressed a wish that he would remain true to the principle of
total-abstinence, entreating him to supplicate Divine aid to enable him
to do so.
"There may be some breakers ahead" said he, "but I think I can steer in
the right course now."
Then bidding each other good bye, we parted--_never to meet again on
earth_.
On my return to Hamilton I called at the hotel and requested to see
Frederick Charlston.
"O, he's gone, sir," abruptly ejaculated the innkeeper.
"_Gone, sir!_" said I. "Where, and when did he go?"
"Well, all I can say about him, is that he went off to his grave about a
week ago," he replied.
"Do you mean to say that Frederick Charlston is dead?" said I.
"Why, yes, sir," said he, "the fellow's as flat as a board now."
"What was the cause of his death?" I inquired.
"Drinking more whiskey than he was able to hold, so he sprang a leak and
sank, cargo and all," he replied, jokingly, with a humorous grin,
endeavouring to be witty at the expense of his victim.
This unexpected intelligence struck me so forcibly that for several
seconds I stood motionless and bewildered. I then walked away with a
sorrowful heart indeed. I could scarcely give credence to the
announcement until it was confirmed by the upholsterer whom I called
upon, and who related the following circumstances connected with the
death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.
"Two weeks ago last Thursday night," said he, "a couple of fast youths
who were carousing merrily at the hotel, persuaded Frederick to take a
sip with them. But one taste was sufficient to rouse up the evil spirit
again within his bosom. He drank deeply that night and for two days
continued his carousal; but was at length turned out upon the street by
the innkeeper for disturbing the necessitated quietness of the Saturday
night. He found his way to the woodshed, where he laid himself down and
fell asleep. In about two hours he awoke shivering with cold; and was
ultimately admitted into the hotel. Next morning he was in a feverish
state, and confined to bed. Towards evening his condition became more
alarming, and a messenger was sent for me. I hurried thither, and
procured a doctor immediately. Had it been prudent to do so, I would
have removed him at once to my own house; however, I did all for him
that I possibly could do! My wife and I in turn sat by his bedside and
watched over him with tender care. But all was in vain. His fever
continued to increase and he became delirious. At times he would startle
up wildly from his couch, shouting frantically as if in the agonies of
horror, frequently calling and in pitiable and heart-rending tones upon
his mother to forgive him: and to come and help him out of the horrible
pit into which he had fallen, &c. &c. But the scene during those moments
was too appalling to admit of further description. Finally he became
calm, and sank into a peaceful slumber from which he never awoke on
earth. On the morning of the fifth day of his illness, November 30th, he
breathed his last, and his spirit passed away forever into the regions
of eternity.
"Poor Frederick, he is gone. My heart is saddened by his death!"
continued he, apparently much affected. "With all his faults he had a
noble soul. Poor fellow! he is gone now. I gave him a decent burial. I
wrote to his father informing him of his son's death; but modified the
circumstances connected therewith; however, it will be sad intelligence
indeed."
* * * * *
The history of Frederick Charlston is now told. His career was brief. It
is however pregnant with unfortunate events, and contains excellent
material for moral reflection. It is in itself a lesson for the young
and the inexperienced, showing the sad results of a self-willed
confidence, the love of vain-glory in adventure, the yielding of moral
principles to gratify the desire of either oneself or that of
others:--and worse than all, the sacrificing of the nobler attributes of
human nature to the insidious wiles of evil society and intoxicating
liquor. Millions of young men, as moral and as self-confident as
Frederick Charlston, have been physically and morally ruined as he was.
Once yielding a little to immoral influence gives the first impetus to a
downward tendency. Continue to repeat it, and the inertia becomes
stronger, and the descent more easy.
"I see no harm in a social glass with a friend," cries one.
"Let cold-water-fanatics preach until doomsday and hurl their anathemas
against inebriates," exclaims another, "but they never shall prevent me
from taking my occasional glass."
"Nor I," says a third. "An occasional glass with a companion is the very
life-spring of social nature. It assimilates one mind with another. It
dispels sadness, and invigorates both soul and body. It opens up the
fountains of the heart, and joy gushes out, sparkling with wit and
melody. Wherefore then should I deprive myself of those blessings, on
purpose to gratify the whims of some cold-water quack? Wherefore then
should I bind my liberties with a pledge as a safe-guard to prevent me
from becoming a drunkard? If other men have been foolish enough to allow
themselves to become drunkards by abusing one of the precious gifts of
nature, is that sufficient reason that I should not drink? I think not.
I am no drunkard, nor shall I become one; therefore I will do as I
please with my own liberty and independence."
Such is indeed the false philosophy of too many moderate drinkers. No
man is a confirmed drunkard at once. It is by degrees that men generally
become inebriates. "Take but a glass," says the recruiting sergeant of
Bacchus, "it will do you no harm." But one glass is but the starting
point. It is the magnet that attracts material akin to itself. What a
world of degradation has been generated by this nucleus of intemperance.
Intoxicating liquor is indeed the most prolific source of wretchedness
and crime. It has been and still is the greatest curse to humanity. It
is the curse of curses. The grave is filled with its wrecks. The fire of
hell is fed by its fuel. Millions upon millions of human beings has it
hurled down to the blackest regions of eternity. How daring then must
that man be;--how utterly lost to every principle of morality, who would
hazard an assertion in favor of intoxicating drinks as a source of
benefit to mankind. The universal evidence of all ages would be against
him. The horrid shrieks of suffering humanity would denounce his
arguments. Millions of grinning skeletons, blackened with every crime
(if permitted) would startle forth from their infernal dungeons; and in
myriads of drunkards' graves the rattling of dry bones would be heard:
Yea, even hell, its very self, bloated with the souls of inebriates,
would groan with indignation. Nay, call it not happiness that sparkles
in the eye of the rum-drinker and softens his heart and tongue into
kindred sympathy with each other. Happiness arises not from the
flickerings of the brain when heated by the reeking fumes of the liquor
glass. Nor does it arise from the fervid impulses of the heart when
excited by the steaming vapors of the rum bowl. Neither does it exist in
the fluctuating feelings of animal nature when stimulated into action by
the demon-spirit of the brandy bottle. Nor does happiness consist in the
wild revelry of human beings, like madmen, recklessly sporting their
fantastic tricks around the unhallowed altar of Bacchus. Nay, term it
not happiness, call it rather by the name of insanity.
In conclusion, if any of my readers are addicted to intemperance, or
take only an occasional glass, with a friend, let me entreat of you to
consider this momentous subject: to crush the bottle-serpent ere its
fangs have pierced you fatally to the heart; and at once and forever, to
dash the accursed bowl to the earth.
Once more, I earnestly entreat of you to pause and reflect. Think of the
countless millions of human beings who have been utterly ruined soul and
body forever by intemperance; think of the immeasurable mass of
wretchedness and crime arising therefrom. Think of your present
condition and your eternal future; and remember also that _every man_,
even in his greatest strength is but a fallable creature; and finally my
dear readers I ask of you to consider seriously the life, career and
death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.
Finis.
* * * * *
The foregoing story is the first of a series entitled--"Tales for
Canadian Homes;" the others will appear in serial form in the
columns of the _Canadian Garland_, a Weekly Newspaper, which the author
intends to establish shortly, in the Village of Durham, Ormstown, County
of Chateauguay, P. Q.
ANDREW L. SPEDON,
St. Jean Chrysostom,
Chateauguay Co., P.Q.
* * * * *
The Poetic Wreath.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
LIFE'S STRUGGLE.
Our life is but a struggle here,
'Mid good and ill, 'twixt hope and fear,
Thro' dang'rous channels oft we steer,
With reckless force;
But self-made ills make life's career
A rougher course.
The world is but a human hive;
To keep the varied swarm alive,
Its working bees must toil and strive,
While others feast.
The lazy drones appear to thrive,
Yet work the least.
The world appears a battle-field,
The stronger rule, the weaker yield,
The golden nerves too often wield
The power which leads,
While justice' scales are oft conceal'd
By selfish deeds.
Yet still we strive midst hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles and sorrow's tears,
And tho' our bustling life appears
A transient breath,
It seems possess'd of endless years
'Twixt us and death.
The poor man toils for daily bread;
By him the rich are clothed and fed,
Yet life's to them a greater dread,
Or idle pest,
Their downy couch too oft a bed
Of sleepless rest.
How many a life's an idle waste,
Its destined glory seems disgraced,
Its vile possessor has defaced
The man divine,
That not a single mark is traced
Of God's design.
Man's but a child, a restless boy,
His life a game, the world his toy,
He strives for something to enjoy
Unjoy'd before,
Tho' vicious tastes and passions cloy
He longs for more.
The lust for gold, the love of fame,
The baser passions oft inflame,
And blindly masks the honest name
Of moral worth,
When life exceeds no higher aim
Than this vile earth.
Our souls the golden god inspires,
And feeds the life-destroying fires,
Until the fevered heart desires
With selfish greed,
More than it actually requires
For nature's need.
Life's hardest ills its spirit braves,
O'er mountain-crags and ocean-waves,
Then make ourselves the worst of slaves,
A slave to self,
To satisfy the thirst that craves
For yellow pelf.
The golden wand with magic art
Throws out the power to charm the heart,
But ah, we feel its bitter smart
When selfish greed
Has robb'd from life that better part
We so much need.
Alas, when gold absorbs our cares
Life's wheels get dry, the axle wears,
And heavier grows the load it bears,
And faster driven,
Its very dust defiles the prayers
We send to heaven.
Life's chariot wheels revolve with speed,
Yet faster still we urge our steed,
And scarcely slack the reins to feed
Or ease its breath,
The journey seems but short indeed,
When closed in death.
We haste it on with worldly care,
Oppressive toil, and meagre fare,
While sin and self-indulgence wear
Our chariot wheels
Increasing still the load they bear,
With countless ills.
How discontented life appears,
By every wind its compass veers,
Our hopes are tarnish'd by the fears
Of fancied ill,
Even tho' the sun of Fortune cheers,
We grumble still.
But why complain for everything
That gives our life a random sting;
Altho' we shift our tether-string
To please our will,
We'll always find the change will bring
Both good and ill.
Then why should we contract our sight
When life turns down the side that's bright
The blast that blows us ills to-night,
With cankering sorrow.
May cheer the clouds which shade the light
That shines to-morrow.
'Tis better then to be content,
Altho' we are not worth a cent;
Our precious hours when wisely spent
Are still the best,
For nature's ills are never sent
To be a pest.
And let it never be our creed,
That when we do an evil deed,
To think that penance can succeed,
To cancel sin;
We pluck the fruit, but still the seed
Remains within.
But may we daily strive to win
That happy world which knows no sin,
'Tis on the heaven we form within
Our bliss depends,
Where life celestial shall begin,
Which never ends.
INDIAN SUMMER.
While winter in the dreary North
Lies crouching ready to leap forth,
In "_Indian Summer_" doth appear
The gentle seasons of the year.
As if they came to shed their bloom
Around their excavated tomb,
To hold their parting interview,
And bid their native world adieu.
The leaves that linger on the trees
Are smiling in the sunny breeze,
And chanting forth with holy breath
The mournful requiem of their death.
The desert-fields, tho' bleak and bare,
Seem lovely through the sun-lit air;
The very shades are glowing bright
Beneath the golden mellow light.
Rejoicing in their freedom still,
On cultured field and pastur'd hill,
The cattle crops the fading grass,
And bless the moments as they pass.
The ploughman and his trusty team
More happy and contented seem,
From golden rays the furrow'd field
A golden harvest yet may yield.
From bough to bough in yonder wood
The squirrel frisks in happy mood,
While searching round in hopes to find
That some few nuts are left behind.
The summer-birds that yearly fly
To yonder Southern sunny sky,
Are hovering round on lingering wing,
And fancy 'tis returning Spring.
While these sweet hours are gliding by,
How calmly smiles the solemn sky,
With golden hues of radiance bright,
As if it were the cream of light.
It seems as if an angel's wing
Had wafted back the breath of Spring,
To animate the ling'ring breath
Of Autumn on the bed of death.
Or from the rays of heavenly dews
Had gilt the earth in rainbow hues,
And o'er the sky so gently flung
The air that once o'er Eden hung.
'Tis but the calm before the storm;
The flush of earth's consumptive form;
The hopeful smile, the fever'd breath,
Before the stern approach of death.
THE SHADOW OF THE HOUSEHOLD.
There is a sympathy in love
We bear for those who mourn,
Whose shadows of departed joys
With every thought return.
'Tis hard to stem the stream of grief
That floods the parents' heart
When death unvails embosom'd hopes,
And throws its fatal dart.
The nursling of a mother's love,
That nestles on her breast,
Is but a life, celestial gift,
By God's own seal impress'd.
And when its prattling lips rejoice
In innocent delight
The parents' love and cherish'd hope,
With tenfold power unite.
Anticipated prospects rise
From hope's enchanted dreams,
Converting life's prospective skies
From shade to sunny beams,
But oft, alas, those fancied hopes
Are in the bud destroy'd;
The cherished gift is pluckt away
And leaves a lonely void.
Its lovely form returns to earth,
Its spirit soars to bliss;
Tho' destin'd to a happy world
It oft may visit this.
Perchance around the household hearth
When prayer's sweet incense rise,
It may return as messenger
To waft it to the skies.
'Tis sweet to cherish such a thought,
Even tho' it were untrue,
That spirit-friends are hovering round
Tho' absent from our view.
But, oh! such dreams however sweet,
A solace to impart,
Can never fill the vacant seat,
Nor yet the parents' heart.
The silent toys, the empty clothes,
Those vestiges of death;
Are full of mournful memories,
Which spring from every breath,
The active form the smiling face,
In every thought appear;
The prattling voice so cheering once
Still lingers in the ear.
The future casts a shadow now,
And hopes give place to grief,
And all these things so pleasing once
Can give no real relief.
'Tis only from a heavenly source
That happiness can flow;
There only can the heart procure
A balm for every woe.
Then ye who mourn your absent ones,
Those gifts by nature given,
Remember tho' 'tis loss to you,
'Tis gain to Christ in Heaven,
But still the wounded bosom bleeds,
And cankers with its grief,
For things have not their former charms
To lend the soul relief.
There is no solid base on earth,
On which our hopes are sure;
The Rock of Heaven alone can make
Our faith and hope secure.
This life is full of varied ills,
With pain in every breath;
And everything, however pure,
Contains the germs of death.
How feeble is that vital thread,
Which holds us to the earth;
It may be snapt at hoary age,
Or at the infants' birth.
We see it break in every clime,
At every age and hour,
And still we live as if its strength,
Could match our Maker's power.
The curse of sin like Cain's mark
Is stampt on every brow;
And to the idols of the earth
We in submission bow.
Earth's things may seem as tangible
To life's short-sighted eyes,
But from the magic touch of death
The cherish'd vision flies.
The soul itself, like Noah's dove,
But flutters out its strength
Around the earth, its safety ark,
Then flies away at length.
Perchance it may, while hovering here,
Some olive-leaf procure,
An emblem of a spirit-world,
Whose solid base is sure.