This is one of your religious ones, is it, that I have so often joined
in jeering at? Surely I ate my supper with a thankful heart, and was
much strengthened by it. Mrs. Mason soon returned, and stepping into the
back room, where Jane lay, and her little brother, brought out three or
four billets of wood, and a cheerful fire was soon made; so that with my
warm, nourishing supper, the cheerful fire, and Mrs. Mason's mild and
cheerful countenance and manner, I regained my spirits, and a
considerable portion of my strength. After a little pause, she said,
"James, when Mary recovers, if it should please God to order it so,
great care will be required lest she should relapse. You would not wish
to lose her, James; she has, I believe, been a kind and affectionate
wife to you, and a tender mother to your children. When you were first
married every thing went well with you, and it was a remark I often made
of you as a neighbor, that you wanted nothing but the true fear of God
in your heart, and faith in our blessed Saviour, to make you a pattern
to all around you. I used often to say a few words to Mary, and she
always received them meekly, but I seldom saw you, and your manner never
gave me any encouragement to talk to you on religious subjects. James,
experience has enabled me to make one remark, that _absence from divine
worship_, as a regular or customary thing, is an almost unerring sign of
the absence of religion from the heart; and it is indeed seldom that I
have seen you in your place on the Sabbath-day. The Sabbath is a blessed
day when it is spent aright." So leaving me, she again went up stairs,
remarking that Mr. Wright had been home to her house, to explain the
cause of her absence, (and as I tolerably well guessed, this partly
explained the mystery of fire and candle, and tea and sugar, and bread,)
adding, "Mrs. Wright will come in at daylight, and will stay with Mary,
and that will allow me to attend to my morning's business: you know,
James, the Bible says, 'diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving
the Lord.'"
I longed to go and see my poor Mary, but I was not asked, and I supposed
it right that it should be so. I now thought of my poor children; and
going into their room, I felt distressed to find them so badly provided
with bed-clothes. I kissed them, and secretly prayed, in a kind of way,
that I might be spared to care more for them than I had lately done. I
sat down, and began to reflect upon all the circumstances of the past
day, and of this eventful night; but I soon fell into a sound sleep,
which continued until Mrs. Mason awoke me, informing me that it was
nearly daylight, and reminded me of her intentions to return home to her
duties as soon as Mrs. Wright should arrive. "And why wait for Mrs.
Wright, madam?" said I; "surely I can attend upon Mary now, or at least
until Mrs. Wright does come." "It is very natural," said Mrs. Mason,
"that you should desire to attend upon your wife, and think yourself
capable of doing so; but my most particular directions from the doctor
were, not to allow you to see your wife, if I could prevent you, until
he had seen her once more; and you may remember, James, in how grave a
manner he directed she might not in any way be teazed, nor--but, James,
to deal honestly with you, and rightly as I consider it, whatever may be
your future conduct to your wife, your behavior to her for these last
three years has not been quite kind; and as grief and depression have
very much to do with her present illness, we are all of opinion that you
had better refrain from going to see her until she is more composed. You
have bruised, James; seek now to heal."
I was touched with the reproof; I was, perhaps, more touched by the
manner. Mrs. Mason was one who sought to win souls: she won my esteem
and confidence, and I felt that if Mrs. Mason could talk to me thus, I
had still something to lose. I went to call Mrs. Wright. On my return,
Mrs. Mason was up stairs, but she had placed nearly a whole loaf and a
piece of butter on the table, and some tea and sugar, and the kettle was
singing by the fireside. These were times of deep thought to me. On Mrs.
Wright's arrival, I thanked her for her great kindness, and hoped better
times were in store. "Yes," she replied, "better times may be in store
for you; I hope they are; you have certainly bought your corn at a very
dear market lately, but you _may_ find a better one to go to yet." Mrs.
Mason now appeared, and ready to go home; the morning had just fully
dawned. "Come, James," said she, "you must go with me; I want to send
back a few things to Mary; and mind, you must not leave the house to-day
after your return, and your little girl ought to be sent to account for
your absence from work--that is, James, if--"
"If, madam?" said I quickly; "if what?"
"Yes, James, if you think you can maintain a new character, and desire
really to become again, what I well remember you once was, a respectable
man; yes, James, a respectable man; for remember, that word is the just
right of every man who acts as every man ought to do. The word seems to
surprise you: it is a sad mistake that seems insensibly to have crept
into common acceptance in these days, that respectability must mean
something belonging rather to riches and rank, than honesty and
uprightness of character; respectability is as much the birthright of
yourself as of young 'squire Mills; indeed, I may say that on this
point, you both started in life exactly equal: his father was indeed
respectable in every sense of the word; and your father was certainly
nothing behind him; both faithfully discharged the duties of that
station 'into which it pleased God to call them,' and this I consider,
from the king to the cottager, is to be respectable; but, James, the
young 'squire is as _respectable_ a man, I am happy to say, as his
father was, and why should not you become as respectable as yours? I
have lived to see many changes, but the change I most mourn over, is the
change of principle in my neighbors. Their respectability seems to be
exchanged for finer clothes and fewer fireside, fewer home comforts; and
I happen also to know, that if very much of the grain that has been made
into poisonous beer and whiskey had been made into good wholesome bread,
both you and I, James, should have been better off, I think, than we are
now, for I have had my struggles as well as you; so have many others. I
have worked early and late, taking care of _the pence_, to maintain my
respectability; yet, let me again repeat it, your father and mother were
respectable to the day of their death, and many in this village would
gladly see their only child following their footsteps, and seeking the
same inheritance they now possess 'in mansions in the skies.' But the
road leads down hill to vice and folly, and I might add, the gulf of
ruin lies at the bottom; you may be far down it; I fear you are, yet
there is a hand that even now beckons to you, and says, 'Turn, turn, I
have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth; wherefore turn and
live:' but, James, you are not ignorant of your Bible."
I tried to conceal my emotions, for it was a very long time since I had
heard such words as these. My Bible and the house of God had been long
entirely neglected. Mrs. Mason perceived that I was affected, and moving
towards the door, said, "Yes, James, it is a slippery, down-hill path
that leads to ruin, and many there be that walk therein. Heaven may be
said to lie upward, yet 'its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its
paths are peace.' But come, it is broad daylight, and I must hasten
home."
As we passed neighbor Wright's cottage, I had not forgotten the comfort
that was within, and I said secretly, "I'll see what's to be done." The
arrival of Mrs. Mason at home seemed to give to all the liveliest
pleasure and satisfaction; and their inquiries after my poor wife were
made with a kindliness of manner that surprised me. "They respect her,"
said I to myself; they took little notice of me, yet treated me with
more civility than I had a right to expect. Mrs. Mason soon put up a few
little things and directed me to give them to Mrs. Wright, and weighing
me a pound of bacon, and putting a large loaf and half a pound of cheese
into the basket with it, with some soap and candles, said, "I shall
charge _these_ to your bill, James. Patty, go into the garden and cut
James a couple of nice cabbages; I dare say he will know what to do with
them." Having had this unexpected provision made me for the day, and
receiving parting words of encouragement from this kind friend, I
returned home. I found my children up and washed, and breakfast ready.
Mrs. Wright had kindly done this. Jane looked cheerful, and my little
Harry came edging towards me, as if he did not know what to make of all
this. "Mother's so ill, Jane says, father--is she; is she, father?"
looking up in my face as I sat down, "is she?"
"She is better now, my boy," I said.
"Better, father? who made her ill? _you_ didn't make her ill, did you,
father--nice bread, father--did mother bring this nice bread home,
father? speak, father, you don't speak."
I could not trust myself to answer; so I rose, for I was much affected
at the thought that Mrs. Mason had cared for these babes and their
mother, but I had neglected them, and foolishly squandered away their
comforts and even their necessary bread.
Mrs. Wright went home; but returned soon after we had finished
breakfast; and by the time I had put things a little to rights, the
doctor called. His "Well, James," filled me with no very pleasing
sensations. "I hope we shall have a change, eh, James?" and passing on,
went up stairs. Ah, thought I, I hope so too, for I know what you mean.
He soon came down; said my wife might get up if she liked, taking a
little care, and, "after to-day, give her a pill every noon for dinner
off a loin of mutton, eh, James? A few more broiled pills for _her_,
and a pint less of liquor for _you_, and your old father and mother
would soon come to life again. _Your_ savings' bank is at the tavern,
and the landlady of the Stag keeps your accounts, I believe, eh, James?
I shall charge you nothing for this." This was the doctor. I received
his reproofs humbly, and certainly thought, you have been very kind, but
I also thought, you are not Mrs. Mason.
Soon after this, my poor Mary came down stairs, and I at once confessed
my sorrow for my past conduct, and my determination to _drink no more_;
and, to conclude, my wife slowly recovered, and, I may add, I recovered
also; but I was very far down the hill, and consequently found it a long
and hard tug to get up again; but Mrs. Mason encouraged me, Mrs. Wright
helped me, the doctor cheered me, Mr. Armstrong praised me, our kind
minister instructed me, my wife assisted me, and, as a crowning point of
all, the blessing of God rested on me. I worked hard, I prayed in my
family, I paid my debts, I clothed my children, I redeemed my bed, I
mended my windows, I planted my garden and sold garden stuff, instead of
buying; I bought me a wheel-barrow, I mended my chairs and table, I got
me a clock; and now here I am, but never shall I forget John Wright or
his wife, how long soever I may remember my other kind friends, and most
of all, Mrs. Mason. But there were no temperance societies in those
days, or I think I should have been reclaimed sooner.
THE
LOST MECHANIC RESTORED.
[Illustration: Reformed drunk re-employed]
Near the close of 1831, says Mr. C----, of Hartford, Conn., I was
requested by a pious and benevolent lady, to take into my employ a young
man who had become intemperate. I objected that the influence of such a
man would be injurious to my other workmen, and especially my
apprentices. But the kind-hearted lady urged her request, saying that he
was willing to come under an engagement not to drink at all, and to
conform strictly to all the regulations of the establishment; that she
received him into her family when a boy, and felt a deep interest in his
welfare; that he had learned a trade, and was an excellent workman; had
become hopefully pious, and united with one of our churches; had married
a very worthy young woman, but his intemperance had blasted his fair
prospects. He was now sensible of his danger; and she believed his
salvation for this, if not for a future world, would turn on my
decision.
I consented to make the trial; and he came, binding himself, by a
written contract, to receive no part of his wages into his own hands,
and to forfeit whatever should be due to him, in case he became
intoxicated. He succeeded remarkably in my business, was industrious and
faithful, and strictly temperate and regular in all his habits.
But in the summer of 1832, he was by some means induced to taste again
an intoxicating drink, and a fit of drunken insanity ensued, which
continued about a fortnight. Knowing that his wife had some money, he
gave her no peace, day nor night, till he got possession of it. He then
took the boat for New York, spent the money, and after bartering some of
his clothes, returned, a most destitute and wretched object.
After he had become sober and rational once more, I happened to meet him
in the street, and asked him why he did not come to work as usual. With
a voice trembling and suppressed, and with a look of grief,
self-reproach, and despair that I shall never forget, he said, "I can
never come into your shop again. I have not only violated my contract
with you, but I have treated you with the basest ingratitude, proved
myself unworthy of your confidence, and destroyed the last hope of my
reformation."
I assured him of my increased desire for his welfare; he returned to his
employment, and his attention to business evinced the sincerity of his
confessions.
But not more than three months had elapsed before he was taken again in
the toils of his old deceiver; and at this time he was so furious and
unmanageable, that he was arrested and committed to the workhouse. He
was soon released, and engaged once more in my business. He continued
for about two months, when he fell again; and after a frenzy of a week,
came to me and begged me to take him to the workhouse, as the only means
by which he should get sober. He remained there a few days, and then
returned to his work.
Such was his history: a few months sober, industrious, and obliging in
my shop; kind, attentive, and affectionate in his family; then a week
furiously drunk, absent from my shop, violent and abusive in his family;
then at the workhouse; and then sober, and at home again.
He had already been excommunicated from the church for his intemperance,
had become a terror to his wife, who frequently sent for me to protect
her from his violence, and seemed to be utterly abandoned.
In the month of May, 1833, he was again missing; and no one, not even
his wife, knew what had become of him. But in the course of the summer
she received a letter from him, in which he said he had got employment,
and wished her, without informing me where he was, to come and live with
him. She accordingly removed to his new residence, and I heard nothing
from either of them.
About two years and a half after this, he came into my shop one day; but
how changed. Instead of the bloated, wild, and despairing countenance
that once marked him as a drunkard, he now wore an aspect of
cheerfulness and health, of manliness and self-respect. I approached,
took him by the hand, and said, "Well, ----, how do you do?" "_I am
well_," said he, shaking my hand most cordially. "Yes," said I, "well in
more respects than one." "_Yes, I am_," was his emphatic reply. "_It is
now more than two years since I have tasted a drop of any thing that can
intoxicate._" He began by abstaining from ardent spirits only; "But,"
said he, "I soon found that what you had so often told me was true; that
I could not reform but by abstaining from all that can intoxicate. I
have done so, and you see the result."
I then inquired after the health of his wife and child: his reply was,
"They are well and happy." I asked him if "his wife made him any
trouble" now. "Trouble," said he, "no; and never did make any: it was I
that made the trouble. You told me so, and I knew it at the time. _But
what could I do?_ So long as I remained here, I could not turn a corner
in your streets without passing a grog-shop. I could not go to my meals
without coming in contact with some associate who would try to entice me
to drink with him; and even the keepers of these shops would try every
artifice to induce me to drink; for they knew that if they could get me
to taste once, I should never know when to stop, and they would be sure
to get a good bill against me.
"I have now come," said he, "to tell you why I left you. It was because
I knew that I should die if I did not leave off drinking, and I saw
distinctly that I could never leave off while I remained in Hartford. My
only hope was, in going where liquor was not to be had."
About two years and a half after this, he applied to me for further
employment, as the business he was following had failed. I told him
there was no man whom I should rather employ, but I could not think of
having him encounter again the temptations which he had so miraculously
escaped. He very pleasantly replied, "I am a man now, and do not believe
I have any thing more to fear from the temptations of the city than you
have."
I told him that I had confidence in the firmness of his purpose, but
feared to see it put to the test. Yet, as he was out of business, I
consented; and no man that I ever employed did better, or was more
deserving of confidence and respect. He continued with me till spring,
when he proposed to take his work into the country, so that he could be
with his family: the arrangement was made, and I employ him still.
On the fourth of July last, (1839,) the Sunday-schools in the town where
he resides made arrangements for a celebration, and I was invited to be
present and address them. As I looked upon the audience, the first
countenance that met my eye was that of this very man, _at the head of
his Sunday-school class_. The sight almost overwhelmed me. Instead of a
loathsome, drunken maniac--a terror to his family and a curse to
society, whose very presence was odious, and his example
pestilential--he was then, in the expressive language of Scripture,
"clothed, and in his right mind;" and was devoted to the heavenly work
of guiding children to Christ and salvation. He had made a public
profession of religion, which he was daily honoring by a life of
Christian meekness and sobriety.
O, who can comprehend the tide of domestic joy, of social happiness, and
of Christian consolation which flows through the heart of this man and
his family, in consequence of this change in his habits?
Now, what was the cause of this surprising change? What wrought this
wonderful transformation in this individual? The whole story is told in
one short line. _He went where intoxicating liquor was not sold._ Had he
remained in this city, he would probably long since have been laid in
the drunkard's grave.
PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.
REFORMATION OF DRUNKARDS.
Truly we live in an age of wonders. Under peculiar influences, hundreds
and thousands of once hopeless drunkards are becoming sober men--yet the
work of reform has but commenced. It is computed that there are in the
land no less than five hundred thousand habitual inebriates. The
condition of each individual calls for sympathy and aid, that he may
become a sober man, and through the blessing of God, gain eternal life.
For drunkenness there is and can be no apology; but the condition of the
drunkard is often pitiable in the extreme. However gradual, or
respectable, may have been his progress in the descent called _temperate
drinking_, the appetite now _is formed_ within him--the drunkard's
appetite. Wretched man! He feels what not faintly resembles the gnawing
of "the worm that never dies." He asks for help. There are times when he
would give worlds to be reformed. Every drunkard's life, could it be
written, would tell this in letters of fire. He struggles to resist the
temptation, causes himself to be shut up in prison, throws himself on
board a temperance ship for a distant voyage, seeks new alliances and
new employments, wrestles, agonizes, but all in vain. He rises to-day
but to fall to-morrow; and amid disappointment and reproach, poverty and
degradation, he says, "Let me alone, I cannot live," and plunges
headlong to destruction.
Who will come to his rescue? Who will aid in the deliverance of
thousands of thousands from this debasing thraldom of sin and Satan? Our
aid they must have.
Their _number_ demands it. Half a million, chiefly adults, often heads
of families, having each a wife and children, making miserable a million
and a half of relatives and friends. They pass, too, in rapid
succession. Ten years is the measure of a generation, and if nothing is
done to save them, in the next forty years two millions may be swept
into eternity.
Their personal degradation and suffering require it. What would we not
do to pull a neighbor out of the water, or out of the fire, or to
deliver him from Algerine captivity, or wrest him from the hand of a
pirate or midnight assassin? But what captivity, what pirate, what
murderer so cruel as Alcohol?
Their _families_ plead for it. The innocent and the helpless, the lambs,
in the paw of the tiger, and that tiger a husband and father. Amid
hungering and thirsting, cold and nakedness, humiliation and shame,
sufferings which no pen can describe, they ask for aid.
_The good of the community_ demands it. While they live as they do, they
are only a moth and a curse. The moment they are reformed, society is
relieved of its greatest burden. The poor-house and the jail become
almost tenantless.
_The practicability of a sudden and complete reform of every drunkard in
the land_ calls for it. This, science has denied. Religion has only
said, "With man it is impossible, but not with God; for with God all
things are possible." But science yields to experiment, and religion
marches on joyful in the footsteps of Providence. Thousands among us
say, "How it has been done, we know not. One thing we know, that whereas
once we were drunkards, now we are sober men."
But above all, _the salvation of the soul_ makes it indispensable.
Temperance is not religion. Outward reformation is not religion; but by
this reform a great obstacle is removed, and thousands of these
miserable men may be brought into the kingdom of God. The strong chain
that has been thrown around them by the "prince of the power of the
air," is broken. They may be approached as they never could be before.
Conviction of sin is fastened upon their conscience. Gratitude inspires
their bosoms. Good men are, of choice, their companions. The dram-shop
is exchanged for the house of God. A Bible is purchased. Their little
ones they bring to the door of the Sabbath-school. They flee affrighted
from the pit; and, through grace, many lift up their hands imploringly
to heaven, as the only refuge for the outcast, the home for the weary.
This has been the operation of the reform in England. Of thirty-five
thousand reformed drunkards in that country, fifty-six hundred have
become members of Christian churches, having hope in God and joy in the
Holy Ghost. So it has been in Scotland; many there now sing of grace
and glory. So it manifestly is in America, and so will it be more and
more around the world, as ministers and Christians meet them in kindness
and lead them to the waters of salvation.
But what can we do? How can we aid the poor unfortunate drunkard? This
is the question.
All can do a little. Some can do much. Every man can get out of the way
of his reform; cease setting him an example which proves his ruin; cease
selling him an article which is death to the soul; discountenance the
drinking usages of society, and those licensed and unlicensed dram-shops
which darken the land. Every man can speak an encouraging word to the
wretched inebriate; tell him of what is doing in the land, allure him
and go with him to the temperance-meeting, and urge him to sign the
pledge; and when he has signed, comfort and strengthen him, give him
employment, give him clothing; and if he falls, raise him up, and if he
falls seven times, raise him up and forgive him.