Chapter XI: Part 11

Here I close. The path of duty and of safety is plain. These evils may be corrected. A virtuous and an independent people may rise in their majesty and correct them all. I call on all whom I now address, to exert their influence in this cause; to abandon all connection with the traffic; and to become the firm, and warm, and thorough-going advocates of the temperance reformation. Your country calls you to it. Every man who loves her welfare, should pursue no half-way measures; should tread no vacillating course in this great and glorious reformation.

But more especially may I call on _young men_, and ask _their_ patronage in this cause. For they are in danger; and they are the source of our hopes, and they are our strength. I appeal to them by their hopes of happiness; by their prospects of long life; by their desire of property and health; by their wish for reputation; and by the fact that by abstinence, strict abstinence alone, are they safe from the crimes, and loathsomeness, and grave of the drunkard. Young men, I beseech you to regard the liberties of your country; the purity of the churches; your own usefulness; and the honor of your family--the feelings of a father, a mother, and a sister. And I conjure you to take this stand by a reference to your own immortal welfare; by a regard to that heaven which a drunkard enters not--and by a fear of that hell which is his own appropriate, eternal home.

Again I appeal to my fellow professing Christians; the ministers of 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.

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.

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."

But these bright days were not to last. Darker ones came, darker than I had ever known before, or perhaps they seemed darker, from the transient sunshine that had gleamed upon us. I again heard my children crying for food, when I had no food to give them. I was again often turned from my dwelling, or, if I offered any resistance, was forced to receive harsh words and cruel blows. But it is in vain to tell all I suffered. Many have gone through the same fiery trial, and will feel that a recital of my woes is but a recital of what they too have borne.

There was one privilege, the want of which I at this time felt deeply. The village church was within sight of our door. I used to hear the bell ring, and see the children of the neighborhood go by, neatly dressed, to the Sabbath-school; but I had no gown, nor bonnet, nor shawl fit to wear, and my children were still more destitute than myself. So we were obliged to spend the Sabbath in sadness at home, while Robert, if the day was fine, would profane it by going on the water to fish, or would linger with his companions round the door of the grogshop--not to enter, it is true; for the dram-seller, with his wife and children, dressed very fine, and were accustomed to attend church; and but for that dreadful shop, I might have gone there too.

Our minister was one of those who thought it his duty to "reason on temperance," as well as "righteousness," and "judgment to come;" and through his exertions, and the exertions of other good men, a reform had commenced, which gave great encouragement to the friends of human happiness and virtue. Temperance-meetings were held once a month in different parts of the town, and in spite of much opposition, and many prophecies to the contrary, the cause went on.

I heard much said about these meetings, and resolved to attend the next; so, when the evening came, I borrowed a cloak and bonnet of one of the neighbors, and hastened to the church. The prayers I there heard did my wounded spirit good, and the plain, impressive language of the minister spoke to my very heart. I resolved to persuade my husband, if possible, to go with me when there should be another meeting.

A circumstance occurred about this time that quite destroyed my remaining courage, and almost caused me to give Robert up for lost. We lived in a small, shabby-looking house, a part of which he rented to a very poor family. They could not pay the rent immediately upon its being due. It was in the depth of winter, and the poor woman had a little infant, not more than two weeks old. But Robert's heart was shut to all kind feelings. One very stormy day he drove the whole family out of doors, and they were obliged to seek some other dwelling. It was too much for the poor woman in her feeble state. She caught a severe cold, and died in a few days. After this heartless act, my faiths quite failed me, and I felt as if nothing could recall my husband to a sense of duty. But I little knew the workings of his mind. He seemed to return a little to his senses, when he saw that his cruelty had probably caused the death of the poor woman, and rendered a large family of helpless children motherless. His countenance became more dark and gloomy, and he scarcely raised his eyes to notice any one.

Things were in this state, when one day our minister called, as he was visiting the people of his parish. I was very glad to see him, and told him all my griefs freely. He gave me what consolation he could, and informed me that there was another temperance-meeting in the evening, which he hoped I would attend; "and," added he, "bring your husband along with you, if you can persuade him to come."

When Robert came home to supper, I was surprised and delighted to find him sober; so I told him of the minister's visit, and the meeting in the evening. He seemed pleased that the minister had called, and even asked me how things looked about the room, "for," said he, "we don't look quite so stylish here as we once did, Mary."

"No, Robert," said I, with a sigh, as I surveyed the wretched apartment; "but if you would attend the temperance-meeting, and hear what the minister says about saving money, I think it would soon look much better here, and the boys might have better jackets, and I might have a better gown. Oh, Robert"--

I would have said more, but my eyes filled with tears, and I could not. Robert hung down his head, and looked ashamed. He knew he had spent, for rum, money enough to feed and clothe his family well. I thought he had half a mind to tell me he would go with me. When I had cleared away the supper, and sent the children to bed, I put on my bonnet, and said, "I will just step into neighbor Warren's, and borrow Nancy's cloak."

"Have not you any cloak of your own?" said he.

"No," I replied, "I have been without one a long time."

Robert said no more, but when I came back with the cloak, and said to him, "Will you go with me?" he said, in a tone which seemed as if he were trying to suppress kinder feelings, "Go along, Mary, and don't be always fretting about me." I was grieved, but said nothing, and proceeded to the meeting alone, praying that Robert might think better of it, and come. The services were even more interesting than they had been at the preceding meeting. The minister said every thing to convince, and I felt a distressing anxiety, that I could not control, to have my husband hear all that was said. Judge, then, of my surprise and pleasure, when, a short time after I had returned home, Robert entered, and said, "Guess where I have been, Mary."

"Not to meeting, Robert."

"Yes, Mary, to meeting. I took up my hat after you had gone, thinking that I would go down to the shop; for I felt uneasy, and wanted something to suppress my disagreeable thoughts. But as I passed by the meeting-house, it was so well lighted up, and the bell was ringing, and the people going in, I thought perhaps I had better go in too; and I am glad I did. Wife, I do believe the minister is right. I know that hard drinking has been the ruin of myself and family, and while the minister was speaking, I thought I would try to break away from my bad habits."

"O, Robert, _will you try_?" I exclaimed, while my heart beat with pleasure to hear him thus speak.

"'Tis hard work, Mary, harder than you think for."

"I know it is hard, my dear husband; but only think of the happiness it would bring to us all--of the ruin from which it will save our little boys--the agony from which it will save your poor wife. O, Robert, if you have one spark of love remaining in your bosom for any of us"--

I could not go on; but leaning my hands upon my husband's shoulder, I sobbed aloud.

Robert seemed affected, and said, in a doubtful tone, "Perhaps I might leave it off by degrees."

"O no, Robert, no," I answered, "that will never do. Don't you remember how particular the minister was to say, '_Leave it off at once_?' You will never do it by degrees."

Robert looked steadily into the fire, and did not say one word more. When not under the influence of strong drink, he is a man of good sense, and I thought it better to leave him to his own reflections. I know not what passed through his mind. The kinder and better feelings of other days seemed to be awakened from their slumber, or rather, He from whom "all just thoughts and holy desires proceed," was influencing his determination. As for myself, I longed in secret to pour out my soul to God. So I went into the bedroom, where my poor children were fast asleep; and after seeing that they were well covered up, I kissed each one of them, and knelt down by their side to offer up my prayer. I prayed as I had never done before. I seemed, through my Redeemer, to gain a nearer and bolder access to the throne of grace. My heart was filled with deep gratitude, penitence, humility, and joy; and from that hour I have dared to hope myself a child of God. O that blessed, blessed night. It caused joy among the angels in heaven, over the reconciliation of one soul to God--over the desire of another soul to return to the path of duty. It caused joy on earth, in our poor, humble dwelling--joy in the bosom of the long-afflicted wife--joy that her own soul was trusting in Christ--joy that her husband was purposing to forsake his wretched way, and turn into a happier, better path.

The next day, before Robert went out, I encouraged him all I could to persevere. I brought to his remembrance as much of the lecture as I could, so that it might be fresh in his mind. He left me in good spirits, and promised to see me again at night a sober man. But O, what an anxious day was it for me! I dreaded, and yet longed for evening to come, and my heart beat as I heard his footstep at the door. But he had kept his word--he had not tasted a drop of spirit during the day. He had seen, too, the minister and several members of the Temperance Society. In consequence of the meeting on the last evening, many new names were added to the temperance list, and they had promised, in case of entire abstinence till the next meeting, to receive his. I could scarcely believe my senses when I heard my husband speak thus, and the prospect of his becoming a sober man seemed too delightful to be ever realized. For a time, I rejoiced with trembling; but when, day after day, I saw him return orderly and quiet, my courage revived, and I felt that he _would persevere_.

At length the evening came round for the next meeting, and my husband and myself went, O so happy! and put our names to the pledge. What a different prospect did our home now present. I could not keep my countenance for joy, when the neighbors came in to congratulate me on the change. I could now dress my children neat and comfortable, and send them to the Sabbath-school. I went myself with my husband constantly to church, and on making known my wish to our minister, publicly professed my faith in the Saviour of sinners. Thus happily did the winter and summer pass away. One day in autumn, as the minister was passing by, my husband was in the road in front of the house.

The minister remarked, "I am glad, Robert, to see your _house repaired_ and looking so well."

"Thank you, sir; why, it does look some better." As the minister was about to pass on, Robert added, "Mr. G., I have not drank a drop of rum for one year, come next Monday. So you see the effect upon my house. I used to work hard before, and spent about all I earned for rum, to drink myself, or to give away. Many a time I have been at my work on a Sunday, and earned a dollar or more in the course of the day, and taken the money, and then laid out the whole in rum. Now I can clothe my family well, and have something to lay out upon my house. Last summer, my boy and I saved sixty dollars besides supporting the family."

Sixty dollars saved! But who can tell the value of the happy days and nights of this year; or the worth of a kind, sober, industrious husband and father, compared with a cross, cruel, and drunken one? Ask the wife; what would she tell you? Ask the children; what would be their answer?

Some of my husband's former wicked companions felt piqued and envious that Robert was free from their degrading habit. They saw him thriving, respected, and happy. His life and prospects were a continued reflection upon theirs. They longed to see him fall, and determined, if possible, to effect his ruin. As he was quietly returning home one evening, he passed by the shop which he was once so much in the habit of frequenting. They accosted him: by taunts and jeers which he had not firmness enough to resist, they drew him into their company. Once there, they thought him within their power. When they could not induce him to violate his pledge by taking rum, they called him a "cold-water man;" "a white-livered coward;" "priest-ridden;" "afraid of his minister," and many other titles of reproach. They then told him he had not promised to drink no wine; and, after much persuasion, they induced him to take a glass. But in this glass they had mingled the poison. Once stimulated, he called for more and yet more, till these wretches had the pleasure of seeing him who had so long stood firm, reeling from the shop, to mar at once all that was pleasant and peaceful at home. When my husband did not return at supper-time, I felt rather anxious, but thought he might be delayed, as he sometimes is; so I put his supper to the fire and sat down to my knitting-work, while one of the boys read to me from his Sabbath-school book.

We were thus employed when my deluded husband entered. O the agony of that moment! Had he been brought to me a corpse, I could not have been more shocked. Had those wicked men that thus seduced my husband entered my house and done the same things that they caused him to do, they might have been indicted for the outrage. In the morning Robert had come to himself; but he saw in the broken furniture, in the distrustful looks of the children, in the swollen eyes and distressed countenance of his wife, more than he cared to know. There was a mixture of remorse and obstinacy in his looks, and when he left me for the morning, instead of his usual "Good-morning, Mary," he shut the door roughly after him and hurried away.

When evening came again, Robert returned to the shop, and asked for a glass of rum. He wanted something to stifle the keen reproaches of conscience. The dram-seller knew my husband, knew of his reform, that from being a nuisance to the town, he had become an orderly and respectable citizen; and now that he had been seduced from the right way, instead of denying him the cause of all our former misery--instead of a little friendly advice--with his _usual courteous smile_, he put the fatal glass into his hand.

For a time my poor Robert continued in a very bad way. He mingled again with his profane and wicked associates; he was ashamed to see his minister, and took no notice of him when he passed; hung down his head when he met any of his temperance friends, and seemed to be fast returning to his former miserable habits.

But he was not thus to become the dupe of wicked and designing men. His wife's prayers and tears were not thus to be of no avail. On a sudden he awoke from his delusion. He had lived a whole year without rum; and though exposed to all weathers, he knew his health had been better, his head clearer, his nerves firmer, his purse heavier, and his home happier. He called one evening to see the President of the Temperance Society; confessed his weakness in yielding to temptation; asked the forgiveness of the Society; requested to have his name, which had been erased from the temperance list, renewed; and promised never again to violate the pledge. Since that night my husband has continued a perfectly temperate man. No temptation has ever led him again to violate his pledge.

I have been induced to give this history of his reform to the world, in order, if possible, to persuade others to follow his example, to show them _how_ quiet and plenty were restored to a wretched dwelling, virtue and respectability to a ruined family, and the _poor man's house repaired_.

* * * * *

A clergyman, worthy of all confidence, and acquainted with
the writer of the above, and the circumstances detailed,
testifies, that the case is "literally and faithfully
described."

JAMIE;

OR,

A VOICE FROM IRELAND FOR TEMPERANCE.

A TRUE NARRATIVE.

BY PROFESSOR EDGAR,
OF BELFAST.

In a populous and civilized district of Ulster lived JAMIE, a day-laborer; a fellow of right good sense and practical talent, carpenter and mason, shoemaker and blacksmith, and aught else the case required. The variety of his powers had nearly ruined him. On all hands he was in requisition, and everywhere he was a favorite--kindness flowing to him in its common channel, spirituous liquor. Wherever he went, he was _treated_. This was too much for flesh and blood, and Jamie became, in the style of the world's false charity, "fond of the drop." His cash flew to the spirit-shop, and brought neither health nor happiness in return. The neighbors called him--alas, for such lullabies to conscience!--an honest, good-hearted fellow, who did nobody any harm but himself. While, however, they tempted, and flattered, and deceived, their victim was posting to ruin.

But, while moderate drinkers were training him to drunkenness, God was raising up the Temperance Society as an ark of safety to him from the flood of their temptations. One of the publications of the Ulster Temperance Society fell into his hands, and he read it, for he was of an inquiring spirit, and a blessing attended it. What, said he, in amazement, can this be true?--distilled spirits of no more use to any man in health than arsenic or opium? "Distilled spirits are too tempting, and dangerous, and violently intoxicating, to be used as a common beverage at all!" O, thought he, that at least is true. "Distilled spirits are in their very nature injurious to the human constitution; and every man who indulges even in their moderate use, injures himself in proportion to the quantity which he consumes." Jamie was astonished, and well he might be; but Jamie was conscientious, and though he had the manhood to confess, what few moderate drinkers will, that he liked a glass, yet, because he had still a conscience, notwithstanding the searing it had got from the fiery drink, he said to himself, "I must, at least, _try_ whether these wonderful statements respecting distilled spirits be true." James _tried_, and the effects were delightful. In a very short time he found, from happy experience, that his health was better from the change; that his purse was better; that soul and body, the whole man of him was far better, in all respects, since he renounced the maddening draught.

His duty was now clear before him--to _abstain_ from the raging drink which, in time past, had been emptying his pocket, destroying his character, and bringing down his body to the grave, and his soul to hell. He did his duty in the right way for doing duty--_at once_, and _right on_.

He saw, however, that something more was incumbent on him than merely doing his duty in this particular--he must, for the good of others, let it be known, without ostentation, that his duty was done. Abstaining, he said to himself, has done me good; the banishment of spirituous liquors would do my country good; what is every man's duty is my duty; and therefore, in love to my brethren, I'll freely give the blessing which to me has been so freely given. Union is strength, thought he: separate efforts are a rope of sand; united, they are the cable which holds the mighty ship. He resolved to establish a Temperance Society.

For this purpose, he supplied himself _immediately_ with a number of Tracts on temperance; for Jamie knew that when self-interest or passion come in, second thoughts are not always best; and forthwith he commenced travelling around, reading them, at spare hours throughout the neighborhood, wherever he could find half-a-dozen people to listen to him. He was a good reader, and very soon found that his reading was not without effect; for in a short time he heard of a decent woman telling her neighbor to send for Jamie to the wake which was to be held in her house, if she wished to save her whiskey, and have peace and quietness; for, said she, he came to the wake in my house, and read and talked about temperance, till both the whiskey and the people seemed either persuaded or frightened, for hardly one had the courage to put to his lips what Jamie called, indeed too truly, "the accursed thing."

Jamie, however, soon found to his cost that he had commenced a very great and a very sore work. The spirit-sellers, four of whom were at a single cross-roads in his neighborhood, he expected to be against him, and drunkards he expected would be against him too; but he soon found that his chief opponents lay in quite another quarter. Sensible people soon began to see that spirit-sellers are drones on the community, doing no good, but much harm: and, besides, one of them having first allowed a temperance meeting to be held in his barn, conscientiously shut up his spirit-shop, and joined the Temperance Society, being convinced that spirit-selling is poison-selling, and that each spirit-shop might justly have on its sign-board, "Beggars made here." Of the drunkards, some indeed did call him hard names, and impute to him base motives; but from among even these, lost as they seemed to be to all hope, he was, by God's grace, enabled to reclaim some, as brands snatched from the burning, while others of them said to him, in the bitterness of their reflecting moments, Go on, Jamie, your work is God's work. Had you commenced but a little sooner, what a blessing might your Society have been to us; but alas, it is all over with us now!

What at first surprised Jamie much was, that the fathers or husbands of these very drunkards were his most bitter opponents. He went to them with a glad heart, expecting that they would hear with delight of a plan by which drunkards, in great numbers, have been reclaimed, and by which the temperate can be effectually secured against temptation; but his heart sunk when he found, not that they received him coldly, for to such receptions he was accustomed, but that they, as well as others who boast much of being "temperate enough already," lost all temper at the very sound of temperance.