"My dear sir, I do really sympathise with you in your affliction," said I. "But under such trying circ.u.mstances confide in G.o.d and he will be your friend indeed."

"But for me there is no Balm in Gilead: there is no physician there," he exclaimed. "As a fallen sinner I again sought for balm in the Vineyard of Satan. I had recourse to the demon-wizard of intoxication, and drank from his enchanted bowl. It was impossible to live and do otherwise; for elsewhere I could find no consolation for my grief. I drank deeply for two days and two nights after having received the letter. I then resumed my work: and with a saddened heart and a weakened const.i.tution, labored until three days ago, when, I again broke the bonds of my resolutions.

To-day I am sobering off myself: and when my bottle is emptied of its contents, _I shall drink no more_."

Saying this, he took from his trunk a bottle half-full with liquor.

"Look here," said he. "You see how short a distance is now between me and total-abstinence. But, my dear friend, I will not insult your feelings by tasting of it in your presence."

Therewith he returned the bottle to its place. In answer to my enquiries he stated that he still intended to return to England in December, and for that purpose had resolved to economise his time and means, and never taste of liquor again.

"Ah," said he, "liquor and evil company have been my ruin. Through the influence of bad companions I first broke the pledge when at Tiverton: and by doing so at that time, I upset all my projected designs. I have been re-building and upsetting ever since; but somehow my superstructure appears to have no solid basis. However, I am determined to try once more and make amends for the past."

I told him that I intended in the course of a few days to go on as far as New London, and would be absent at least a month. I would then return by way of Hamilton, and accompany him as far as Montreal, on my way home: it being about the time he purposed leaving for England. He appeared to be delighted with the idea of so doing, and heartily thanked me for the kindness I shewed towards him.

On the following morning he resumed his work apparently with renewed cheerfulness and vigor; and during the ten days I remained in Hamilton he improved rapidly in both body and spirit. We met together every evening and pa.s.sed an hour or two very pleasantly, and I may add, profitably. He never once tasted of liquor during that time; but seemed more determined than ever to resist its temptation. I advised him to remove to some private boarding house; where he would be less exposed to the influence of liquor and evil company: but he seemed unwilling to comply therewith on account of his intended removal in so short a time.

On the morning of that day on which I left Hamilton I called at the shop, where he was vigorously at work. On bidding him good-bye, I expressed a wish that he would remain true to the principle of total-abstinence, entreating him to supplicate Divine aid to enable him to do so.

"There may be some breakers ahead" said he, "but I think I can steer in the right course now."

Then bidding each other good bye, we parted--_never to meet again on earth_.

On my return to Hamilton I called at the hotel and requested to see Frederick Charlston.

"O, he's gone, sir," abruptly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the innkeeper.

"_Gone, sir!_" said I. "Where, and when did he go?"

"Well, all I can say about him, is that he went off to his grave about a week ago," he replied.

"Do you mean to say that Frederick Charlston is dead?" said I.

"Why, yes, sir," said he, "the fellow's as flat as a board now."

"What was the cause of his death?" I inquired.

"Drinking more whiskey than he was able to hold, so he sprang a leak and sank, cargo and all," he replied, jokingly, with a humorous grin, endeavouring to be witty at the expense of his victim.

This unexpected intelligence struck me so forcibly that for several seconds I stood motionless and bewildered. I then walked away with a sorrowful heart indeed. I could scarcely give credence to the announcement until it was confirmed by the upholsterer whom I called upon, and who related the following circ.u.mstances connected with the death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.

"Two weeks ago last Thursday night," said he, "a couple of fast youths who were carousing merrily at the hotel, persuaded Frederick to take a sip with them. But one taste was sufficient to rouse up the evil spirit again within his bosom. He drank deeply that night and for two days continued his carousal; but was at length turned out upon the street by the innkeeper for disturbing the necessitated quietness of the Sat.u.r.day night. He found his way to the woodshed, where he laid himself down and fell asleep. In about two hours he awoke shivering with cold; and was ultimately admitted into the hotel. Next morning he was in a feverish state, and confined to bed. Towards evening his condition became more alarming, and a messenger was sent for me. I hurried thither, and procured a doctor immediately. Had it been prudent to do so, I would have removed him at once to my own house; however, I did all for him that I possibly could do! My wife and I in turn sat by his bedside and watched over him with tender care. But all was in vain. His fever continued to increase and he became delirious. At times he would startle up wildly from his couch, shouting frantically as if in the agonies of horror, frequently calling and in pitiable and heart-rending tones upon his mother to forgive him: and to come and help him out of the horrible pit into which he had fallen, &c. &c. But the scene during those moments was too appalling to admit of further description. Finally he became calm, and sank into a peaceful slumber from which he never awoke on earth. On the morning of the fifth day of his illness, November 30th, he breathed his last, and his spirit pa.s.sed away forever into the regions of eternity.

"Poor Frederick, he is gone. My heart is saddened by his death!"

continued he, apparently much affected. "With all his faults he had a n.o.ble soul. Poor fellow! he is gone now. I gave him a decent burial. I wrote to his father informing him of his son's death; but modified the circ.u.mstances connected therewith; however, it will be sad intelligence indeed."

The history of Frederick Charlston is now told. His career was brief. It is however pregnant with unfortunate events, and contains excellent material for moral reflection. It is in itself a lesson for the young and the inexperienced, showing the sad results of a self-willed confidence, the love of vain-glory in adventure, the yielding of moral principles to gratify the desire of either oneself or that of others:--and worse than all, the sacrificing of the n.o.bler attributes of human nature to the insidious wiles of evil society and intoxicating liquor. Millions of young men, as moral and as self-confident as Frederick Charlston, have been physically and morally ruined as he was.

Once yielding a little to immoral influence gives the first impetus to a downward tendency. Continue to repeat it, and the inertia becomes stronger, and the descent more easy.

"I see no harm in a social gla.s.s with a friend," cries one.

"Let cold-water-fanatics preach until doomsday and hurl their anathemas against inebriates," exclaims another, "but they never shall prevent me from taking my occasional gla.s.s."

"Nor I," says a third. "An occasional gla.s.s with a companion is the very life-spring of social nature. It a.s.similates one mind with another. It dispels sadness, and invigorates both soul and body. It opens up the fountains of the heart, and joy gushes out, sparkling with wit and melody. Wherefore then should I deprive myself of those blessings, on purpose to gratify the whims of some cold-water quack? Wherefore then should I bind my liberties with a pledge as a safe-guard to prevent me from becoming a drunkard? If other men have been foolish enough to allow themselves to become drunkards by abusing one of the precious gifts of nature, is that sufficient reason that I should not drink? I think not.

I am no drunkard, nor shall I become one; therefore I will do as I please with my own liberty and independence."

Such is indeed the false philosophy of too many moderate drinkers. No man is a confirmed drunkard at once. It is by degrees that men generally become inebriates. "Take but a gla.s.s," says the recruiting sergeant of Bacchus, "it will do you no harm." But one gla.s.s is but the starting point. It is the magnet that attracts material akin to itself. What a world of degradation has been generated by this nucleus of intemperance.

Intoxicating liquor is indeed the most prolific source of wretchedness and crime. It has been and still is the greatest curse to humanity. It is the curse of curses. The grave is filled with its wrecks. The fire of h.e.l.l is fed by its fuel. Millions upon millions of human beings has it hurled down to the blackest regions of eternity. How daring then must that man be;--how utterly lost to every principle of morality, who would hazard an a.s.sertion in favor of intoxicating drinks as a source of benefit to mankind. The universal evidence of all ages would be against him. The horrid shrieks of suffering humanity would denounce his arguments. Millions of grinning skeletons, blackened with every crime (if permitted) would startle forth from their infernal dungeons; and in myriads of drunkards' graves the rattling of dry bones would be heard: Yea, even h.e.l.l, its very self, bloated with the souls of inebriates, would groan with indignation. Nay, call it not happiness that sparkles in the eye of the rum-drinker and softens his heart and tongue into kindred sympathy with each other. Happiness arises not from the flickerings of the brain when heated by the reeking fumes of the liquor gla.s.s. Nor does it arise from the fervid impulses of the heart when excited by the steaming vapors of the rum bowl. Neither does it exist in the fluctuating feelings of animal nature when stimulated into action by the demon-spirit of the brandy bottle. Nor does happiness consist in the wild revelry of human beings, like madmen, recklessly sporting their fantastic tricks around the unhallowed altar of Bacchus. Nay, term it not happiness, call it rather by the name of insanity.

In conclusion, if any of my readers are addicted to intemperance, or take only an occasional gla.s.s, with a friend, let me entreat of you to consider this momentous subject: to crush the bottle-serpent ere its fangs have pierced you fatally to the heart; and at once and forever, to dash the accursed bowl to the earth.

Once more, I earnestly entreat of you to pause and reflect. Think of the countless millions of human beings who have been utterly ruined soul and body forever by intemperance; think of the immeasurable ma.s.s of wretchedness and crime arising therefrom. Think of your present condition and your eternal future; and remember also that _every man_, even in his greatest strength is but a fallable creature; and finally my dear readers I ask of you to consider seriously the life, career and death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.

Finis.

The foregoing story is the first of a series ent.i.tled--"Tales for Canadian Homes;" the others will appear in serial form in the columns of the _Canadian Garland_, a Weekly Newspaper, which the author intends to establish shortly, in the Village of Durham, Ormstown, County of Chateauguay, P. Q.

ANDREW L. SPEDON, St. Jean Chrysostom, Chateauguay Co., P.Q.

The Poetic Wreath.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

LIFE'S STRUGGLE.

Our life is but a struggle here, 'Mid good and ill, 'twixt hope and fear, Thro' dang'rous channels oft we steer, With reckless force; But self-made ills make life's career A rougher course.

The world is but a human hive; To keep the varied swarm alive, Its working bees must toil and strive, While others feast.

The lazy drones appear to thrive, Yet work the least.

The world appears a battle-field, The stronger rule, the weaker yield, The golden nerves too often wield The power which leads, While justice' scales are oft conceal'd By selfish deeds.

Yet still we strive midst hopes and fears, With pleasure's smiles and sorrow's tears, And tho' our bustling life appears A transient breath, It seems possess'd of endless years 'Twixt us and death.