religion, the officers and members of the pure church of God. The pulpit
should speak, in tones deep, and solemn, and constant, and reverberating
through the land. The watchmen should see eye to eye. Of every officer
and member of a church it should be known where he may be found. We want
no vacillating counsels; no time-serving apologies; no coldness, no
reluctance, no shrinking back in this cause. Every church of Christ, the
world over, should be, in very deed, an organization of pure temperance
under the headship and patronage of Jesus Christ, the friend and the
model of purity. Members of the church of God most pure, bear it in
mind, that intemperance in our land, and the world over, stands in the
way of the Gospel. It opposes the progress of the reign of Christ in
every village and hamlet; in every city; and at every corner of the
street. It stands in the way of revivals of religion, and of the glories
of the millennial morn. Every drunkard opposes the millennium; every
dram-drinker stands in the way of it; every dram-seller stands in the
way of it. Let the sentiment be heard, and echoed, and reechoed, all
along the hills, and vales, and streams of the land, _that the
conversion of a man who habitually uses ardent spirits is all but
hopeless_. And let this sentiment be followed up with that other
melancholy truth, that the money wasted in this business--now a curse to
all nations--nay, the money wasted in one year in this land for it,
would place a Bible in every family on the earth, and establish a school
in every village; and that the talent which intemperance consigns each
year to infamy and eternal perdition, would be sufficient to bear the
Gospel over sea and land--to polar snows, and to the sands of a burning
sun. The pulpit must speak out. And the press must speak. And you,
fellow-Christians, are summoned by the God of purity to take your stand,
and cause your influence to be felt.
THE FOOLS' PENCE.
[Illustration: Gin-shop]
Have you ever seen a London gin-shop? There is perhaps no statelier shop
in the magnificent chief city of England. No expense seems to be spared
in the building and the furnishing of a gin-shop.
Not many years ago a gin-shop was a mean-looking, and by no means a
spacious place, with a few small bottles, not bigger than a doctor's
largest vials, in the dusty window. But now, however poor many of the
working classes may be, it seems to be their pleasure to squander their
little remaining money upon a number of these palaces, as if they were
determined that the persons whom they employ to sell them poison should
dwell in the midst of luxury and splendor. I do not mean to say, that we
have a right to throw all the blame upon the master or the mistress of
a gin-shop. For my part, I should not like to keep one, and be obliged
to get rich upon the money of the poor infatuated creatures who will
ruin both soul and body in gin-drinking; but the master of the gin-shop
may be heard to say, "I don't force the people to drink; they will have
gin, and if I do not sell to them somebody else will." The story of "The
Fools' Pence," which follows, is worth attending to.
A little mean-looking man sat talking to Mrs. Crowder, the
mistress of the Punch-bowl: "Why, Mrs. Crowder," said he, "I
should hardly know you again. Really, I must say you have
things in the first style. What an elegant paper; what noble
chairs; what a pair of fire-screens; all so bright and so
fresh; and yourself so well, and looking so well!"
Mrs. Crowder had dropped languidly into an arm-chair, and sat
sighing and smiling with affectation, not turning a deaf ear
to her visitor, but taking in with her eyes a full view of
what passed in the shop; having drawn aside the curtain of
rose-colored silk, which sometimes covered the window in the
wall between the shop and the parlor.
"Why, you see, Mr. Berriman," she replied, "our business is a
thriving one, and we don't love to neglect it, for one must
work hard for an honest livelihood; and then you see, my two
girls, Letitia and Lucy, were about to leave their
boarding-school; so Mr. Crowder and I wished to make the old
place as genteel and fashionable as we could; and what with
new stone copings to the windows, and new French
window-frames to the first floor, and a little paint, and a
little papering, Mr. Berriman, we begin to look tolerable. I
must say too, Mr. Crowder has laid out a deal of money in
fitting up the shop, and in filling his cellars."
"Well, ma'am," continued Mr. Berriman, "I don't know where
you find the needful for all these improvements. For my part,
I can only say, our trade seems quite at a stand-still.
There's my wife always begging for money to pay for this or
that little necessary article, but I part from every penny
with a pang. Dear Mrs. Crowder, how do you manage?"
Mrs. Crowder simpered, and raising her eyes, and looking
with a glance of smiling contempt towards the crowd of
customers in the shop, "The fools' pence--'tis THE FOOLS'
PENCE that does it for us," she said.
Perhaps it was owing to the door being just then opened and
left ajar by Miss Lucy, who had been serving in the bar, that
the words of Mrs. Crowder were heard by a man named George
Manly, who stood at the upper end of the counter. He turned
his eyes upon the customers who were standing near him, and
saw pale, sunken cheeks, inflamed eyes, and ragged garments.
He turned them upon the stately apartment in which they were
assembled; he saw that it had been fitted up at no trifling
cost; he stared through the partly open doorway into the
parlor, and saw looking-glasses, and pictures, and gilding,
and fine furniture, and a rich carpet, and Miss Lucy, in a
silk gown, sitting down to her piano-forte: and he thought
within himself, how strange it is, by what a curious process
it is, that all this wretchedness on my left hand is made to
turn into all this rich finery on my right!
"Well, sir, and what's for you?"
These words were spoken in the same shrill voice which had
made the "fools' pence" ring in his ears.
George Manly was still in deep thought, and with the end of
his rule--for he was a carpenter--he had been making a
calculation, drawing the figures in the little puddles of gin
upon the counter. He looked up and saw Mrs. Crowder herself
as gay as her daughters, with a cap and colored ribbons
flying off her head, and a pair of gold earrings almost
touching her plump shoulders. "A glass of gin, ma'am, is what
I was waiting for to-night, but I think I've paid the last
'_fools' pence_' I shall put down on this counter for many a
long day."
* * * * *
George Manly hastened home. His wife and his two little girls
were sitting at work. They were thin and pale, really for
want of food. The room looked very cheerless, and their fire
was so small that its warmth was scarcely felt; yet the
commonest observer must have been struck by the neatness and
cleanliness of the apartment and every thing about it.
"This is indeed a treat, girls, to have dear father home so
soon to-night," said Susan Manly, looking up at her husband
as he stood before the table, turning his eyes first upon one
and then upon another of the little party; then throwing
himself into a chair, and smiling, he said,
"Well, children, a'n't you glad to see me? May not those busy
little fingers stop a moment, just while you jump up and
throw your arms about your father's neck, and kiss him?"
"O yes, we have time for that," said one of the girls, as
they both sprang up to kiss their father.
"But we have no time to lose, dear father," said Sally,
pressing her cheek to his, and speaking in a kind of coaxing
whisper close to his ear, "for these shirts are the last of
the dozen we have been making for Mr. Farley, in the
Corn-market."
"And as no work can be done to-morrow," added Betsy gravely,
who stood with her little hand in her father's, "we are all
working as hard as we can; for mother has promised to take
them home on Monday afternoon."
"Either your eyes are very weak to-night, dear wife," said
George, "or you have been crying. I'm afraid you work too
hard by candlelight."
Susan smiled, and said, "_Working_ does not hurt my eyes,"
and as she spoke, she turned her head and beckoned with her
finger to her little boy.
"Why, John, what's this that I see?" said his father. "What,
you in the corner! Come out, and tell me what you have been
doing."
"Nay, never mind it, dear husband; John will be very good, I
hope, and we had better say no more about what is past."
"Yes, but I must know," said he, drawing John close to him.
"Come, tell me what has been the matter."
John was a plain-spoken boy, and had a straight-forward way
of speaking the truth. He came up to his father, and looked
full in his face, and said, "The baker came for his money
to-night, and would not leave the loaves without mother paid
for them; and though he was cross and rough to mother, he
said it was not her fault, and that he was sure you had been
drinking away all the money; and when he was gone, mother
cried over her work, but she did not say any thing. I did not
know she was crying, till I saw her tears fall, drop, drop,
on her hands; and then I said bad words, and mother sent me
to stand in the corner."
"And now, John, you may bring me some coal," said Susan;
"there's a fine lump in the coal-box."
"But first tell me what your bad words were, John," said his
father; "not swearing, I hope?"
"No," said John, coloring, but speaking as bluntly as before,
"I said that you were a bad man. I said, bad father."
"And they were bad words, I am sure," said Susan, very
calmly; "but you are forgiven, and so you may get me the
coal."
George looked at the face of his wife, and as he met the
tender gaze of her mild eyes now turned to him, he felt the
tears rise in his own. He rose up, and as he put the money
into his wife's hands, he said, "There are my week's wages.
Come, come, hold out both hands, for you have not got all
yet. Well, now you have every farthing. Keep the whole, and
lay it out to the best advantage, as you always do. I hope
this will be a beginning of better doings on my part, and
happier days on yours; and now put on your bonnet, and I'll
walk with you to pay the baker, and buy a bushel or two of
coal, or any thing else you may be in want of; and when we
come back I'll read a chapter of the Bible to you and the
girls, while you get on with the needle-work."
Susan went up stairs to put on her bonnet and shawl, and she
remained a little longer, to kneel down on the spot where she
had often knelt almost heart-broken in prayer--prayer that
her heavenly Father would turn her husband's heart, first to
his Saviour, and then to his wife and children; and that, in
the meantime, he would give her patience. She, knelt down
this time to pour out her heart in thanksgiving and praise.
The pleasant tones of her husband's voice called her from her
knees.
George Manly told his wife that evening, after the children
were gone to bed, that when he saw what the pence of the poor
could do towards keeping up a fine house, and dressing out
the landlord's wife and daughters; and when he thought of his
own hard-working, uncomplaining Susan, and his children in
want, and almost in rags, while he was sitting drinking, and
drinking, night after night, more like a beast than a man,
destroying his own manly strength, and the fine health God
had given him, he was so struck with sorrow and shame, that
he seemed to come to himself at last. He made his
determination, from that hour, never again to put the
intoxicating glass to his lips, and he hoped he made it in
dependence upon God for grace and strength to keep it.
It was more than a year after Mrs. Crowder, of the
Punch-bowl, had first missed a regular customer from her
house, and when she had forgotten to express her wonder as to
what could have become of the good-looking carpenter that
generally spent his earnings there, and drank and spent his
money so freely--
"There, get on as fast as you can, dears; run, girls, and
don't stop for me, your beautiful dresses will be quite
spoilt; never mind me, for my levantine is a French silk, and
won't spot."
These words were screamed out as loud as her haste would
permit, by Mrs. Crowder, who was accompanying her daughters,
one Sunday evening, to the tea-gardens.
She was answered by Miss Lucy, "You know, ma, we can't run,
for our shoes are so tight."
"Then turn into one of these houses, dears," said the mother,
who was bustling forward as fast as she could.
"No, indeed," replied the other daughter, who found time to
curl her lip with disdain, notwithstanding her haste and her
distress, "I'll not set a foot in such filthy hovels."
"Well, dears, here is a comfortable, tidy place," cried the
mother at length, as they hastened forward; "here I'll enter,
nor will I stir till the rain is over; come in, girls, come
in. You might eat off these boards, they are so clean."
The rain was now coming down in torrents, and the two young
ladies gladly followed their mother's example, and entered
the neat and cleanly dwelling. Their long hair hung dangling
about their ears, their crape bonnets had been screened in
vain by their fringed parasols, and the skirts of their silk
gowns were draggled with mud. They all three began to stamp
upon the door of the room into which they had entered with
very little ceremony; but the good-natured mistress of the
house felt more for their disaster than for her floor, and
came forward at once to console and assist them. She brought
forth clean cloths from the dresser-drawer, and she and her
two daughters set to work to wipe off, with quick and
delicate care, the rain-drops and mud-splashes from the
silken dresses of the three fine ladies. The crape hats and
the parasols were carefully dried at a safe distance from the
fire, and a comb was offered to arrange the uncurled hair,
such a white and delicately clean comb as may seldom be seen
upon a poor woman's toilet.
When all had been done that could be done, and, as Miss Lucy
said, "they began to look themselves again," Mrs. Crowder,
who was lolling back at her ease in a large and comfortable
arm-chair, and amusing herself by taking a good stare at
every thing and every one in the room, suddenly started
forward, and cried out, addressing herself to the master of
the house, upon whose Bible and at whose face she had been
last fixing her gaze, "Why, my good man, we are old friends:
I know your face, I'm certain; still, there is some change in
you, though I can't exactly say what it is."
"I used to be in ragged clothes, and out of health," said
George Manly, smiling, as he looked up from his Bible; "I am
now, blessed be God for it, comfortably clad, and in
excellent health."
"But how is it," said Mrs. Crowder, "that we never catch a
sight of you now?"
"Madam," said be, "I'm sure I wish well to you and all
people; nay, I have reason to thank you, for words of yours
were the first means of opening my eyes to my own foolish and
sinful course. You seem to thrive--so do we. My wife and
children were half-naked and half-starved only this time last
year. Look at them, if you please, now; for, so far as sweet,
contented looks go, and decent raiment befitting their
station, I'll match them with any man's wife and children.
And now, madam, I tell you, as you told a friend of yours one
day last year, that ''tis the FOOLS' PENCE which have done
all this for us.' The fools' pence! I ought to say, the pence
earned by honest industry, and spent in such a manner that I
can ask the blessing of God upon the pence."
When Mrs. Crowder and her daughters were gone, George Manly
sat without speaking for some considerable time. He was deep
in thought, and his gentle, pious wife felt that she knew on
what subject he had been thinking so deeply; for when he woke
up from his fit of thought, a deep sigh stole from his lips,
and he brushed away the tears which had filled his eyes.
"Susan," he said, "what can I render to the Lord for all his
goodness to me? From what a fearful depth of ruin have I been
snatched! Once I met some of my old companions, who so set
upon me to draw me to drink with them, that I thought Satan
must have urged them on. Another time, I went walking on, and
found myself at the door of the poison-shop, without knowing
how I got there; but God gave me strength to turn instantly
away, and not linger a moment to daily with temptation.
"I could not help thinking, as I was reading this holy book,
when that showy dame came in from whose hand I so often took
the poisonous cup, how much I owed to God for saving me from
ruin, and giving me that peace and satisfaction in religion
which I now enjoy; and making me, I hope, a blessing to you
all. O, what a love was the love of Christ to poor sinners!
He gave his own blood as our precious ransom; he came to save
us from our sins, that we may serve him in newness of life."
* * * * *
The above history, which is taken from a Tract of the Religious Tract
Society in London, has its counterpart in the case of multitudes in our
own country. Let him who would not shorten his days, and make his family
wretched, and ruin his own soul, resolve with George Manly, "_never
again to put the intoxicating glass to his lips_;" and like him, let him
go humbly and with childlike confidence to God for strength to keep his
resolution, and for grace to pardon all his sins, through the blood and
righteousness of Christ. Then shall he have peace of mind, and be a
blessing in his day; and when this brief life is ended, he shall enter
into eternal joy.
PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.
THE POOR MAN'S HOUSE REPAIRED;
OR,
THE WRETCHED MADE HAPPY.
A NARRATIVE OF FACTS.
[Illustration: Violent drunk with wife and child]
For fifteen years of my married life I was as miserable as any woman
could be. Our house was the picture of wretchedness externally, and it
looked still more wretched within. The windows were patched, the walls
shattered, the furniture defaced and broken, and every thing was going
to ruins.
It had not always been so: once my home was happy, and I used to take
much pleasure and some pride in hearing the neighbors say, "How neat and
trim neighbor N----'s house always looks!" But they could not say so
long. One thing after another changed. Our table was no longer spread
with comfortable food, nor surrounded with cheerful faces; but there
were scanty meals, sour looks, and loud and angry words; while, do the
best I could, I was not able to conceal the tatters of my own and my
children's clothing. My husband is a mechanic; his employment is good,
and he might have made his family as happy as any family in the place;
but he was in the habit of taking ardent spirit every day. _He_ thought
it did him good; _I_ knew it did not, for I found him every day more and
more unkind. Our comforts, one by one, were stripped away, till at last
I saw myself the wife of a confirmed drunkard.
I well remember, one evening, I was sitting by the fire, mending my poor
boy's tattered jacket. My heart was very sad. I had been thinking of the
happy evenings I had spent with my husband before our marriage; of the
few pleasant years that succeeded; of the misery that then came; of the
misery yet to come; and for me there seemed no ray of hope or comfort.
My husband was a terror to his family, and a nuisance to the
neighborhood; my children were idle, ragged, and disobedient; myself a
heart-broken wife and wretched mother. While I thought of all this, I
could no longer retain my composure, but, dropping my work, I leaned my
head upon my hand and wept bitterly. My husband had been absent all day,
and I was now expecting him home every minute. It was growing late, so I
wiped away my tears as well as I could, and put the embers together, to
make my fireside look as inviting as possible. But I dreaded my
husband's return--his sharp voice and bitter words pained me to the
heart, and rougher treatment than all this I often experienced from him
who had once been to me all that I could wish.
At length the door opened, and Robert entered. I saw by his flushed
countenance and angry expression that I had better remain silent; so,
with a sinking heart, I placed a chair for him by the fire, and
continued my work without speaking.
Robert broke silence, and in a sharp tone said, "What on earth do you
sit there for, at work on that dirty rag? Why don't you give me
something to eat?" and snatching the work roughly from my hands, he
threw it into the fire. I sprang forward to rescue my poor child's
garment, and so quick were my movements, that I saved it from much
injury. But while I was shaking the ashes from it, my husband again
snatched it from my hands, and with a terrible oath, defying me to touch
it, once more threw it into the fire. I was afraid to attempt to save
it; so I turned away, with bitter feelings to see my labor all lost, and
my destitute child made still more destitute by its father's hand. But,
as patiently and kindly as I could, I set before Robert the supper I had
prepared for him. It did not look very inviting, to be sure; but I could
offer nothing more. He swore he would not taste a particle. I now
reproached him for not having provided any thing better for myself and
children. But this was no time for reproach. Robert's anger rose to the
highest pitch. He dashed the cup and plate I had placed for him to the
floor, and seizing me roughly by the arm, he opened the door, and
forcing me from the dwelling, bid me enter again, if I dared. The night
was cold and windy. I was thinly dressed, and even ill. But I forbore to
take refuge under a neighbor's roof. My heart was too sad and desolate
to admit of human consolation. At this sorrowful moment I remembered
that
"Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;"
so, falling almost unconsciously upon my knees, I prayed that God would
comfort my stricken heart; that my sins might be pardoned; that I might
be enabled to repose all my griefs in the bosom of that gracious One who
has kindly promised to give the heavy-laden rest. I then prayed for my
miserable husband, that God would have mercy upon him, and deliver him
from his dreadful delusion before it was too late. I prayed, too, for my
poor children, with all the fervor of a mother's soul. This was the
first prayer I had offered for years; for I had been an impenitent
woman. Had I prayed sooner, I might have saved myself much sorrow and
distress. But as it was, I arose from my knees with feelings far less
hopeless and bitter. I then crept back to the house, and on looking in
at the window, I found that Robert had fallen asleep; so I opened the
door quietly, without disturbing his heavy slumbers, and laid myself
down to rest.
The events of this evening were no uncommon events to me. Each
succeeding day brought but the same rough treatment, the same
wretchedness and want. Robert grew worse and worse. He not only
destroyed all our peace, but brought noise and discord into the whole
neighborhood, till at last, for the sake of quiet, he was taken to the
house of correction. I never can forget that dreadful night when he was
carried away. He came home shockingly intoxicated. The little children
crept into the farthest corner of the house to shield themselves from
his fury. He threatened every thing with destruction. I was in danger of
my life, and ran for safety into the nearest house, where a poor widow
lived. Robert followed--we fastened the door--he swore he would set fire
to the building, and burn it over our heads. But some one passing by
heard the uproar, and went for the town officers. Several of them came,
just as my infatuated husband was pelting the window with stones. They
took him away by force, while he was uttering the most shocking oaths. I
sat down and wept with shame and vexation. My little Jane put her arm
round my neck, and said, "Don't cry, ma--he has gone--wicked pa has
gone, and I hope he will never come back--he is so cross, and beats us
so." I hardly knew what to say in answer to my little girl, but I felt
that it was a dreadful thing to have my children speak so of him whom I
would gladly have taught them to love and honor.
I determined, now my husband was away, to support my family by my own
work; for wretched as my home was, I could not bear to leave it and come
upon the town. I could not earn much, for my health was feeble, but I
managed, by depriving myself of several meals, to save enough to mend my
poor neighbor's window.
But Robert longed to regain his liberty. He resolved that he would do
better, and upon promising orderly conduct, was permitted to return to
his family. Badly as he had treated me, I was glad to see him back
again. He looked humble, and spoke to me kindly. He kissed the younger
children, too, and for a while every thing went on smoothly. To me it
seemed like the dawning of better days, and when Robert one evening
brought home some new shoes for our oldest boy, and a new gown for my
little Jane, I actually wept for joy, and Jane said, her "wicked pa had
come back very good."