little to his senses, he began to reason with himself upon his
folly--surrounded with blessings, yet abusing the whole--and in an
angry, passionate 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, "God 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 God 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 God 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 God
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 passed 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 appetite. 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 friendship, 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 God. 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 DESTITUTION AND WRETCHEDNESS OF A DRUNKARD.
[Illustration: 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 shilling 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 destitute 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 passed 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
snatched 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 pass 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.
When I entered the doctor's house, "Is that you, James King?" said he,
sharply; "do you want me?" "Yes, sir," said I; "my wife is very ill, and
Mrs. Mason, who called in just at the time she was taken, desired me to
come and to request your attendance upon her. I am afraid, sir, it is no
little affair." "Mrs. Mason, Mrs. Mason," said the doctor; "I am
inclined to think Mrs. Mason has better drugs in her shop for your
wife's complaint, than my shop affords, and I expect I shall have to
tell her so." I hung down my head with shame; I understood what he
meant. He then moved towards the door, putting on his greatcoat as he
walked along. "But stop," said he, just as we got to the outer door,
"how did you come--no lantern?" "I can carry your lantern before you,
sir," said I. "Yes," said he, "and _I_ may bring it back." "But I will
return with you, sir; my wife will most likely want some medicine."
"Yes, James," said he, "and if she does, I shall want the money longer
still." I had no word to reply, it was no time to begin being
independent. The doctor's large glass lantern was brought, and our
journey back was quickly performed. I should have thought a great deal
of giving 7_s._ 6_d._ for such a lantern, if I had really required just
such an one; yet I had paid as many pounds on my scores, and thought
nothing at all about it.
On getting home, I found that somehow it had been managed to make up a
good fire, and the tea-kettle was boiling, and Mrs. Mason was just
making a little tea. "How is Mary?" said I, hardly daring to look Mrs.
Mason in the face. "Well, Mrs. Mason," said the doctor, "pray what is
the matter?" and as the doctor spoke, Mrs. Mason took up the jug of tea
she had made, conversed with the doctor in an undertone for half a
minute, and both walked up stairs, leaving me again to reflection, in
fact, taking no notice of me. I sunk down heavily upon the chair that
was beside the fire, in a state of exhaustion, and while I was wondering
where all this would end, was aroused by the cry of "James, James, the
doctor says your wife must put her feet into warm water; so bring up
some directly, James, in a large pan or bucket, or any thing that is
handy; pray, make haste;" and before I could reply, for I doubted
whether there was either, the door was shut, and again I was placed in a
new difficulty. However, I found an old leaky pail and an old broken
pan; so I set the pail into the pan to catch the leakage, and together,
they did tolerably well; but I felt considerable shame as I handed this
lumbering affair up stairs, well knowing it would call forth some
remark.
I had just again seated myself at the fire, when the doctor, in no very
gentle tone, called out, "James, here, man, take this paper to my
office; Mr. Armstrong will give you some physic for your wife, and then
it will be twice given, for I suppose you will never pay for it." I
stared at him, or rather paused and hesitated--who could tell why? was
it the taunts I was thus obliged to endure; or was it bodily exhaustion?
I had eaten all the food my poor Mary had put into my basket for my
breakfast; and, as it appeared, all she had in the world; yet I had
managed to borrow sixpence at noon, intending to buy me a loaf and
cheese, and half a pint of beer for my dinner; but venturing upon half a
pint of beer first, I called for another; and, becoming thirsty, for a
pint; and so my dinner and my afternoon's work were both lost together.
It must now have been nearly ten o'clock, and I had tasted no food, as I
said before, since breakfast. I felt faint, and well I might; however,
with a heavy step and a heavier heart, taking up the doctor's lantern,
and looking round upon the empty wretchedness before me, I again set out
for the doctor's. And did I not also think over neighbor Wright's
comfortable, cheerful room, and his boiling pot; while I, who had that
day spent a borrowed sixpence upon beer, had not even a crust of bread
for myself or family? And did I forget the pence, and then the
shillings, and then the pounds I had paid at public-houses; selling, and
pawning my bed from under me, and my clothes from off my back, and all
to gain misery and want, and lose my good name?
Mr. Armstrong was a kind-hearted young man, and soon prepared the
medicines, and by kind and cheerful hopes concerning my poor Mary, and a
little civil conversation, raised my spirits, and I walked back somewhat
lighter of heart; but I was thoroughly wet, and the cold rain pierced my
very marrow, for I was wearing summer clothing in the winter season--I
had no other. Cold and wet, exhausted and miserable, I once more lifted
the latch of my own cottage door. The candle was dimly burning. My fears
arose, and my heart sunk within me: "Is Mary worse?" said I. "She is no
better," said Mr. Wright, who was sitting over the dying embers--"no
better--heavy work, James."
I placed the medicine upon the table, and sat down, exhausted and
wretched. Whose situation so low, could he have known all, that would
not have pitied me? Wright rose, and carried the medicines up stairs;
and in another minute all was the stillness of death. I could have borne
any thing but this--at least I so felt--but under this oppressive
stillness, my feelings gave way in torrents of tears, and every moment
brought a fresh accusation against myself for my past doings; and again
I looked around me, as well as my tearful eyes and dimly-lighted room
would allow, and contrasted all with John Wright's. "So comfortable,"
said I, involuntarily. Indistinct sounds and cautious steppings were now
heard above; and while I was raising myself up to listen, in order to
catch, if possible, something that would acquaint me with the state of
my poor Mary, the bedroom door opened, and down came Wright and his
wife, the latter carefully lighting the doctor, Mrs. Mason being close
behind him. I tried to recover myself a little, and to assume something
like the appearance of courage; and in a half-choked, coughing voice,
said, "How is my poor wife, sir?" The doctor, with a severity of manner,
and imitating my manner of speaking, replied, "You should have coughed
sooner, James;" then turning to Mrs. Mason, said, "Remember, _quiet_ is
the best medicine _now_; indeed, it is food and medicine in her present
state; don't teaze her about any thing; at half past, mind--and again at
twelve, until the pain subsides, when sleep will follow."
I shrunk back at the words "half past," which reminded me that I had not
even a twenty-shilling clock in the house.
"James," said the doctor, "have you no time in the house?" "No, I
suppose not," he answered himself. "Well, then, you must guess at it; oh
dear, bad work indeed. Come, James, put that bit of candle into the
lantern; I hope it does not rain now."
Wright opened the door, and I walked out with the lantern, the doctor
following, and, buttoning his coat closely round him, remarked upon the
darkness of the night. I walked on with an unsteady step, feeling as if
every yard of ground I strode over would be the last. But, urged on by
my situation, I reached the doctor's house without any remark from him
upon my wearied step, and pulled his bell in rather a hasty manner.
"You are in a hurry, James," said he, "you forget the time of night; a
gentle pull would have waked the attendant without disturbing my family.
_My_ family are very regular, James, and I make it a rule never to
disturb them when it can be avoided; perhaps you think such things of no
consequence: regularity, James, and sobriety, are two very principal
things in a family."
By this time the attendant appeared, and, giving him the lantern and
thanking the doctor for his kind attention, I left the door to return
home. The door closed, and my situation was a very painful one; the
sudden change from light to utter darkness obliged me to stand still a
few minutes before I could venture to move, but a world of sensations
ran through my mind, and distracted me more than ever; the weakness of
my body prevented my checking its sensations; and, could I have weighed
in the balance of reason, to say nothing of religion, at this moment,
all foolish, sinful pleasures--falsely so called--of drinking, with the
distress of mind and weariness of body I then endured, and had endured
on this one single night, how light would they have seemed. Yes, even if
I had not included the loss of positive property and health.
Once again, then, I reached my home. All was still; but soon Mrs. Mason
came down. Before I could speak, she said, "Mary is better, James; she
has fallen into a nice sleep." She spoke kindly, and looked kindly. I
tried to answer her, but my feelings choked me; and seeing my effort to
suppress them, she continued, "God has dealt very mercifully, James,
towards you, in so blessing the means that have been used; but you have
had no supper; you will find some nice warm soup by the side of the fire
there; Mrs. Wright sent it in for you, by her husband, when she returned
home: come, James, eat it while it is warm, it will do you good; your
little girl and boy have both had some, and they are now warm in bed and
fast asleep."
"Mr. and Mrs. Wright are very kind," I added, "and you are kind; what
should I have done but for you and them?"
"Done, James?" said she mildly; "done, James? see how God orders his
dispensations; 'in the midst of wrath he remembers mercy,' and I trust
he has purposes of mercy in this event towards you and your family; but
beware, James, for the Bible expressly says, 'My son, despise not the
chastening of the Lord;' and again, 'whom the Lord loveth, he
chasteneth.' But eat your supper; I will step up stairs and see if your
wife is still sleeping, and if she is, I will come down and chat a
little with you."