Select Temperance Tracts Part 25

Try it, Christian philanthropist. "It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor any thing whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or made weak." Sacrifices make the world happy, and G.o.d glorious.

Try it, Christian female. It is work for your s.e.x. Woman is the greatest sufferer from intemperance: driven by it from her home; made an outcast from all the comforts of domestic love, while her babes cry for bread, and she has no relief. Lost men will listen to your words of kindness, be cheered by your benefactions, encouraged by your smiles.

Try it, young men. Have you no companions early palsied, withered, and scathed by alcoholic fires, treading now on the verge of the drunkard's grave? Go after them in their misery. Go, thanking G.o.d that you are not as they are. Go, believing that you may save them; that they will receive you thankfully; that they must have your help, or be lost. Go, and be strong in this work. The movements of Providence call you to effort for the unfortunate and wretched, that you may pull them out of the fire. What you do in the blessed work, do quickly. O, if it be in your power to save one young man, do it quickly. Run and speak to that young man. He will thank you for it. His father will thank you. His mother will thank you. His sisters will thank you. His immortal soul, rescued and saved, will love you for ever.

TO THE POOR UNFORTUNATE DRUNKARD.

MY FRIEND AND BROTHER--You are poor and wretched. A horrid appet.i.te hurries you on in the road to ruin. Abroad you are despised. Home is a desolation. A heart-broken wife weeps over you, yet does not forsake you. She hopes, she waits for your reform and for better days.

Conscience bids you stop. But appet.i.te, companions, and custom say, _One gla.s.s more_. That is a fatal gla.s.s. You rise but to fall again, and you feel that you can never reform. But you CAN REFORM. Thousands and thousands around you have reformed, and would not for worlds go back to drinking. They are happy at home; respected abroad; well dressed; well employed; have no thirst for the dreadful cup. They feel for you. They say, "Come thou with us, and we will do thee good." Come _sign the pledge_, the pledge of total abstinence. In this is your only hope. This is a certain cure. Touch not, taste not, handle not rum, brandy, whiskey, wine, cider, beer, or any thing that intoxicates, and you will be a new man, a happy man. Begin now. Try it now in the strength of the Lord. From this good hour resolve that none of these accursed drinks shall ever enter your lips. The struggle may be severe, but it will soon be over. Say then, "Come life, come death, by the help of G.o.d I will be free."

PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.

TOM STARBOARD

AND

JACK HALYARD.

A NAUTICAL TEMPERANCE DIALOGUE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Starboard and Jack Halyard]

JACK. Halloo, s.h.i.+pmate; what cheer? Mayhap, however, you don't choose to remember an old crony.

TOM. Why, Jack, is that you? Well, I must say, that if you hadn't hailed me I should have sailed by without knowing you. How you're altered! Who would have supposed that this weather-beaten hulk was my old messmate Jack Halyard, with whom I've soaked many a hard biscuit, and weathered many a tough gale on old Ocean? and then you used to be as trim in your rigging as the Alert herself; but now it's as full of ends as the old Wilmington brig that we used to crack so many jokes about at Barbadoes.

Give me another grip, my hearty, and tell me how you come on.

JACK. Bad enough, Tom--bad enough. I'm very glad, however, to overhaul you again, and to find you so merry, and looking so fat and hearty. The world must have gone well with you, Tom.

TOM. You may well say that, Jack, and no mistake. The world has gone well with me. My appet.i.te is good, my sleep sound; and I always take care to have a shot in the locker, and let alone a snug little sum in the seamen's savings-bank, that I've stowed away for squally times, or when I get old, so as to be independent of hospitals and retreats, and all that sort of thing. And what's more to the purpose, Jack, I try to have a clean conscience--the most comfortable of all; don't you think so?

JACK. Why yes, Tom, I do think that a clean conscience must be a very comfortable thing for a man to have. But I can't brag much of mine now-a-days; it gives me a deal of trouble sometimes.

TOM. Ah, that's bad, Jack--very bad. But come, let me hear something about you since we parted, some four years or so ago. Where have you last been, in what craft, etc.? Give me a long yarn: you used to be a famous hand at spinning long yarns, you know, Jack. Don't you remember how angry old copper-nosed Grimes used to get when the larboard watch turned in, and, instead of sleeping, we made you go ahead with the story you were on, which made him wish us all at Davy Jones' locker? Ha, ha, ha.

JACK. O yes, Tom, I remember it all very well; but--

TOM. And then, don't you recollect how we used to skylark in the lee scuppers with those jolly fellows, Buntline and Reeftackle, until the Luff had to hail, and send a Middy with his _compliments_ to the _gentlemen_ of the larboard watch, and to say, that if _quite agreeable to them_, less noise would be desirable? I say, Jack, you seem to have forgotten all these funny times in the Alert. Cheer up, man; don't be downhearted. Give me your flipper again; and if you are really in trouble, you may be sure, that as long as your old messmate Tom Starboard has a shot in the locker, or a drop of blood in his veins, he'll stand by Jack Halyard--aye, aye, to the last.

JACK. Thank you, Tom--thank you. You were always an honest fellow, and meant what you said; so let us steer for the sign of "The Jolly Tar,"

round the corner, and over a bowl of hot flip we'll talk over old times, and--

TOM. Avast there, Jack--avast, my hearty. None of your hot flip, or cold flip, or any other kind of flip for me. "The burnt child dreads the fire," as the old proverb says; and I am the child that was once pretty well scorched: but now I give it a wide berth. If you will come with me to my quiet boarding-house, "THE SAILOR'S HOME," I will be very glad to crack a joke with you; but you won't catch me in any such place as "The Jolly Tar," I can tell you. I mind what the old Philadelphia Quaker said to his son, who, as he was once coming out of a house of ill-fame, spied old Broadbrim heaving in sight, and immediately wore s.h.i.+p. The old chap, however, who always kept his weather-eye open, had had a squint of young graceless, and so up helm and hard after he cracked, and following him in, hailed him with, "Ah, Obadiah, Obadiah, thee should never be ashamed of _coming out_--thee should always be ashamed of _going in_."

No, no, Jack, I side with friend Broadbrim: I won't enter such places.

JACK. Well, I don't know, Tom, but that you are about half right. I think, myself, that "The Jolly Tar" is not what it's cracked up to be. I am sure that neither the landlord nor the landlady look half as kindly on me as they did when I first came in, with plenty of money in my pocket. Indeed, they have been pretty rough within the last few days, and tell me that I must s.h.i.+p, as they want my advance towards the score run up, of the most of which I am sure I know nothing; but it's always the way.

TOM. Yes, Jack, it's always the way with such folks. The poor tar is welcomed and made much of as long as his pockets are well lined; but let them begin to lighten, and then the smiles begin to slacken off; and when the rhino is all gone, poor Jack, who was held up as such a great man, is frowned upon, and at last kicked out of doors: or if, mayhap, they have let him run up a score, he is hastily s.h.i.+pped off, perhaps half naked, and the advance is grabbed by the hard-hearted landlord, who made poor Jack worse than a brute with his maddening poison. Oh, Jack, how my heart has bled at witnessing the cruel impositions practised upon our poor brother sailors by these harpies. But come, I want to hear all about my old messmate. If I am not greatly out of my reckoning, grog is at the bottom of all your troubles, and long faces, and sighs, and groans. Cheer up, Jack, and unbosom yourself to your old friend and pitcher.

JACK. Well, Tom, as I know you to be a sincere fellow, I will unbosom myself. You were never nearer your right lat.i.tude than when you said that grog was at the bottom of my troubles. Yes, grog has pretty nearly used up poor Jack Halyard. A few years ago I was a light-hearted, happy fellow, and only drank because others did--not that I liked the taste particularly in those days, but I did it for good-fellows.h.i.+p, as it was called; and moreover, I did not like to seem odd; and when I s.h.i.+pped on board the man-of-war, where it was served out to us twice a day, I soon became fond of it. And you know we both used to long for the sun to get above the fore-yard, and for the afternoon middle watch, that we might splice the main-brace. Sure I am that it was _there_ I first took a liking to the stuff; and O, Tom, don't you think the government will have much to answer for, in putting temptation in the way of us poor sailors? Instead of being our protector, it is our seducer. Our blood will stick in its skirts.

TOM. Yes, Jack, I think that Uncle Sam has a great deal to answer for on that tack; and I can say, too, that the love of rum that I acquired in the government service had pretty nearly fixed my flint, both for this world and the next. But still, Jack, it wont do for seamen to drink grog because the government supplies it, and think to excuse themselves by blaming it. No, no; that is a poor excuse. Men who brave the dangers of the mighty deep, as our cla.s.s do, and face death in every form with unshrinking courage, ought to be able to resist such a temptation. It will be a poor reason to hand in to the Almighty when the angel summons all hands before his dread tribunal, in palliation of our drunkenness and the sins committed by us when under the influence of liquor, that the government, instead of comforting us, and fortifying us against heat and cold, etc., with coffee, and tea, and other wholesome small stores, poisoned our bodies and souls with vile rum. No, indeed, Jack, that will avail us naught in that awful day; and it will be poor consolation _in the drunkard's h.e.l.l_, to blame the government. But go on.

JACK. Well, when the Alert's cruise was up, and we were paid off, about a dozen of us went to lodge with old Peter Hardheart, at the sign of the Foul Anchor; and as we had plenty of money, we thought we would have a regular blow-out. So Peter got a fiddler and some other unmentionable requisites for a jig, and we had a set-to in firstrate style. Why, our great frolic at Santa Martha, when Paddy Chips, the Irish carpenter, danced away his watch, and jacket, and tarpaulin, and nearly all his toggery, you know, and next morning came scudding along the beach towards the Alert, as she lay moored near sh.o.r.e, and crept on board on all-fours, like a half-drowned monkey, along the best bower, wouldn't have made a nose to it. Well, next morning I had a pretty smart touch of the horrors, and felt rather muddy about the head; but old Peter soon set us agoing again, and we kept it up for three days and three nights, carriage-riding, and dancing, and drinking, and theatre-going, etc.; and we thought the world was too little for us: when all at once old Hardheart took a round turn on us with, "I'll tell you what it is, you drunken swabs, I'll not have such goings-on in my house--my house is a decent house--you must all s.h.i.+p; yes, s.h.i.+p's the word. I must have the advance--you're more than a month's wages apiece in my debt." Tom, I was sober in an instant. My conscience smote me. In three days I had squandered the wages of a three years' cruise, and had not a dollar left to take to my poor old mother in the country, whom I had intended to go to see after the frolic was over, and give all my money to. O Tom, what a poor, pitiful, sneaking wretch I felt that I was. The two letters that I had received from her during my absence--so kind, so affectionate, and so full of fervent prayers to G.o.d that her poor boy might be preserved from the temptations that beset the sailor, and be brought safely back to her widowed arms--rushed to my remembrance, and overwhelmed me with grief; and I--I, who ought to have denied myself even innocent gratification until I had ministered to her wants, had forgotten the best of mothers, and had spent all of my hard earnings with the vilest of the vile.

TOM. Poor Jack, my heart bleeds for you; but cheer up, and go on.

JACK. Well, to shorten a long story, I was the next day bundled, when about three sheets in the wind, on board a merchantman, with an empty chest, although it was winter, old Hardheart nabbing the whole of my advance; and for two or three days, Tom, I suffered awfully from the horrors. I thought I was already in the h.e.l.l to which the wicked who don't repent must go. Awake, asleep, at the helm, on the yard, in the storm, in the calm, everywhere I was haunted with the remembrance of my ingrat.i.tude to my poor dear mother--to her who had watched over me in helpless infancy and childhood; who had prayed over and for me so much; who had pinched herself to give me a snug outfit when I first went to sea; and who I knew had strained her poor old eyes in watching for the loved form of her Jack--for the papers must have apprised her of the arrival of the Alert two days after we got in. But, dear old woman, she watched in vain; Jack had forgotten his best friend; he had herded with beasts, and had became a beast himself. O Tom, what a miserable wretch I was. I sometimes tried to read in the Bible that she had given me, but it seemed as if every verse was a fiery scorpion stinging me for my crimes and ingrat.i.tude. As the s.h.i.+p in which I was, sailed under the temperance clause, I could get no liquor on board, and I determined to shun the accursed thing ever after; to turn over a new leaf in my log-book of life; to save my money; and to become a steady, sober lad, so that I might after a while be made a mate, and then a master, and have a shot in the locker for my dear old mother. These good resolutions lasted as long as I had no liquor; but you will see that they vanished like smoke when I came ash.o.r.e, on the return of the vessel. As the wind was light in the bay in coming up, we were boarded by several boats from sailor boarding-houses, and among the rest by old Hardheart. When I saw him I fairly gritted my teeth with rage, for I had not forgotten how he treated me before; but he came up to me in so kind a manner, and inquired so affectionately after my health, and seemed to feel such a real interest in me, that I swallowed all his blarney and coaxing, and at last agreed to stop with him again for the night that I would be in the city, intending, the moment that we should be paid off next day, to steer straight for my old mother, if, mayhap, my cruelty had not broken her heart; and moreover, determining not to drink a drop of liquor in his house.

TOM. Dear Jack, I trust that you were able to keep that resolution.

JACK. You shall hear, Tom. When we got to old Peter's, I found, as usual, a good many people in the house; and the old woman and the girls were rejoiced to see me again, as they made out. The old woman at once proposed that we should celebrate my safe return in the big punch-bowl; but Peter said, "No, Jack has turned cold-water man, and he can't drink; but we'll drink for him." I observed that Peter sneered whilst he said this, and so did all the rest, and it galled me a good deal. While the punch was brewing, some of the men whispered, "_White-liver_"--"_poor sneak_"--"_no sailor_;" and after the punch had pa.s.sed round amongst them once or twice, I thought I would just take _one swig_, to show them that I was not the poor sneak they took me for, and no more. But, Tom, that one swig sealed my doom: THE DANGER'S ALWAYS IN THE FIRST GLa.s.s.

The men cheered, and said they knew I was a man, and a _real seaman_, by the cut of my jib, and that I was too good for the Temperance Society; and the girls cast sheep's-eyes at me, and said that I was just the chap to run away with a woman's heart, and that my eyes were not made for the good of my soul, and such-like foolish and wicked talk. My weak head could not stand the punch, nor my vain heart the flattery, and I was soon regularly used up. Instead of having a dollar to take home to my poor old mother, I found myself, in a few days, the second time penniless; was forced to s.h.i.+p again; got back; the same scenes were acted over; and here I am, the miserable wretch that you see me--light in purse, sick in body, and tormented in mind; the past a curse, the future despair.

TOM. Well, Jack, I must say, that your case is hard enough. But don't despair, my boy. Many a poor fellow who has hung to a plank in mid-ocean until he thought it was surely all over with him, has been picked up and saved. The same kind Providence who has watched over us, and preserved us in so many dangers, will not desert us. What we have to do is, to turn from every evil way, and humbly trusting in the merits of Christ our Saviour, look up to him for mercy, repent of all sin, and resolve, in his strength, to fear and obey him in future. And I trust, Jack, that all will yet be well with you; and I rejoice that I have wherewithal to give you a lift towards fitting you out, and heading you off towards your old mother.

JACK. A thousand thanks, Tom--a thousand thanks. "A friend in need is a friend indeed." You have lightened my mind of a heavy cargo of care by your kind offer, made with the frankness of a sailor, and which I must gratefully accept. And now that I have finished my long and mournful yarn, it is your turn; and to tell the truth, Tom, I am exceedingly anxious to hear all about you. So heave ahead.

TOM. Well, Jack, here goes. You know when we left the Alert we had plenty of rhino in our pockets. So I intended to steer straight for my native village, in the state of Pennsylvania, where I had left my old father and a sweet, dear little sister, three years before, to cheer their hearts with a sight of their sailor-boy, and to make them comfortable with the cash. Unfortunately, as I pa.s.sed through Philadelphia, I went with some wild fellows to the theatre--to so many the gateway to h.e.l.l--and having grog enough aboard to make me pretty crank and foolish, I soon found myself in the third tier among the painted fire-s.h.i.+ps; and as the proverb says, "When the wine is in, the wit is out," so I was led as the simple one of Scripture, "like an ox to the slaughter." Truly, Jack, "her house is the way to h.e.l.l, going down to the chambers of death." The consequences you may readily imagine. I was made to drink until I was quite insensible; was robbed of all my money, and then turned out of doors into the cold street. When I came to myself it was nearly sunrise, and I could not imagine how I had got there. My head swam, my bones ached, and I felt as if it was "blue Monday" with me. I staggered off not knowing where I was or whither I went, for half an hour or more, when I sat down on a flight of steps, and fell asleep. When I awoke, all the horrors of my situation rushed upon my mind; and O, Jack, I felt the raging h.e.l.l in my bosom that you did when Hardheart first s.h.i.+pped you off. How sunk and degraded in my own eyes. I determined, however, upon going home, as the distance was short--only fifteen miles--and a bitter journey it was, Jack. I thought on my madness and folly, and wondered, with the poor ignorant Indian, why people would put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains. Instead of going to meet my dear father and sweet little sister with a joyous face and a pocket full of money, with which to make their hearts sing for joy, I was returning, like the prodigal son, from feeding upon husks with swine--poor, and with a heavy heart and a gnawing conscience. O the h.e.l.l, Jack, of a bad conscience. It is the beginning of the existence of the worm that never dies, and of the fire that is never quenched. It is a foretaste of that eternal h.e.l.l prepared for those who persist in violating G.o.d's holy laws. Well, I reached home at last, and a sad home I found it. The sand of my dear father's gla.s.s was almost run out--the poor old man was about slipping his cable. But O, Jack, how happy he looked; and so calm and resigned to the will of his heavenly Father, as he said--ready to set sail on the great voyage of eternity, or to stay and weather more of the rough gales of adversity in this life, just as G.o.d pleased. He held out his thin, white hand to me, and welcomed his boy, and thanked the Lord that he had given him a sight of me before his eyes were scaled in death. My poor sister hung weeping on my neck. But, Jack, bad as I then felt, I felt a thousand times worse when my dear old father beckoned me to him, and laying his hand on my head, prayed that G.o.d--his G.o.d, the Friend who had stood by him in every gale and tempest of life, and proved true to him till the last--would bless his dear boy Thomas, and take him into his especial keeping, and lead him to the blessed Jesus; and finally, when the voyage of life was over, that we all three might join the dear mother who had gone before us, at the right hand of the throne of G.o.d, to bless and praise his holy name for ever. He then put Susan's hand into mine, and blessed us both again, and said, "Thomas, I leave this dear, precious girl with you; watch over her, cherish and protect her, and be to her both father and brother. May the great G.o.d bless you, my dear children, and make you his. I have but little time to say more, for the icy hand of death is on me; my Saviour beckons, and I must away. Come, Lord Jesus." With these words the glorified spirit of my beloved father winged its flight to mansions in the skies--to that "rest prepared for the people of G.o.d;" and I was left with my weeping sister, almost stupefied with grief. Three days after, the clods of the valley covered the mortal remains of my honored parent, and then poor Sue and I felt that we were all in all to each other. I told her of all my troubles, and that I had robbed her by my vileness; but the dear girl kissed me, and said, "Dear brother, do not mourn on my account; I am young and healthy, and can easily support myself by my needle; but mourn on your own account--mourn over your sins, and your ingrat.i.tude to the great Being who has upheld you and preserved you in so many dangers, known and unknown, on the mighty deep. And promise me, dear brother, that you will never touch another drop of liquor again; it will be the first step towards reformation."

JACK. Poor dear girl. Of course, Tom, you promised?

TOM. Aye, aye, Jack, I did promise; and what's more, I kept my promise.

But you must know how I was able to do it. Before I left the village a great Temperance-meeting was held there, and several of the friends of the cause delivered addresses, in which they showed so clearly and conclusively the great evils resulting from the use of spirituous liquors, that nearly every body in the village signed the pledge of total abstinence--at least, all of the respectable part of the community, and even a good many sots who had been given up as incorrigible. O Jack, if you had heard the awful accounts they gave of broken-hearted wives and beggared children; of the widows and orphans made by rum; of the misery and degradation attendant upon it; of the crimes committed under its influence--robbery, murder, suicide--leading to the penitentiary, the gallows, and death, it would have made your blood freeze in your veins. And these accounts were all true, Jack, for many of the horrible scenes had taken place about the neighborhood.

JACK. I don't doubt it at all, Tom. And moreover, I believe that not one half of the misery caused by rum--no, not the thousandth part, is ever known by the public. Many an injured wife and suffering and ruined child have concealed the history of their woes from the eye and ear of the world, and buried their sorrows deep in their own bosoms.

TOM. True, Jack, or breathed them only to their G.o.d, whose ear is always open to the cry of the afflicted, and whose hand is always ready to aid them. Well, I signed the pledge, which I am sure has a great effect in restraining one when tempted to swerve; for what man of honorable feelings would wilfully violate his word and promise--and a few weeks after, having fixed my sister comfortably with a pious milliner, I went to Philadelphia, and there s.h.i.+pped with a temperance captain for a South American port. O Jack, what a blessed voyage that was to me. On the first day out, all hands were called aft to the break of the quarterdeck, when the captain, who was a pious man, told us in a few words, that it was his practice to have "family wors.h.i.+p" every morning and evening in the cabin, and he hoped that all his men would cheerfully unite with him. The captain was so kind in his manner, and appeared to be so sincere, and as he seemed, moreover, to regard us as human beings with immortal souls, and not as brute beasts, out of whose muscles and sinews he cared only to get plenty of work, we all willingly consented.

So at sundown all hands were mustered in the cabin, except the man at the helm, as the weather was mild and the s.h.i.+p under easy sail; and the captain prayed fervently that G.o.d would give us a safe and pleasant pa.s.sage, and bring us all to think of our souls. He then read a portion of Scripture, which he explained to us, and after singing a couple of hymns we were dismissed.

JACK. Ah, Tom, good captains make good crews, all the world over; and I'll warrant there was neither knocking down nor mutiny aboard of that vessel.

TOM. No, Jack; there was nothing but peace, and quietness, and good order; every man knew his place and did his duty; and the captain was like a father to us. He had a spare quadrant, which each of us used in turn in taking the daily observation, under his own eye; and he taught us how to work our reckoning; so that in the course of the voyage some of us got to know a good deal about navigation. And, Jack, I had good evidence of the value of religion also, particularly when we encountered the equinoctial gale in the southern tropic, and were near going down.

Then it was, Jack, when we had lost our foretopmast, and our maintopsail and most of our other sails had been blown into ribbons; when the sea had carried away nearly all our bulwarks, and swept the decks clear of caboose, longboat, etc.; and the pumps were constantly going--at one time to the tune of more than a thousand strokes an hour--to keep the vessel free; and the axes were at hand, ready to cut away the masts when the worst should come--that our captain was calm and collected. He seemed to be as patient and submissive to the will of G.o.d, as if he had been _born_ a Christian; and he gave many a kind word of encouragement to his men. What a difference there must have been between him and the vulgar, bullying man that Sam Bowsprit once sailed with, who was a wolf when there was no danger, and a sheep when there was; but it is always so with your bullies, whether in the cabin or the forecastle. To return to my story: in two or three days the gale spent its fury, and we reached our port in safety. One day while in port, in rummaging my chest, I discovered at the bottom a little package neatly tied up, which, upon opening, I found to contain two small books, called, "James'

Anxious Inquirer after Salvation," and "Baxter's Call to the Unconverted;" with a few touching lines from my dear sister, earnestly beseeching me to look to my soul, and to read my Bible and these little books, and never to forget my G.o.d. Jack, this went to my heart like an arrow. It brought fresh to my mind the death-bed scene of my dear father, and I fell upon my knees, and, for the first time, _really_ prayed to G.o.d. Yes, Jack, I then prayed indeed. I felt my ingrat.i.tude to G.o.d to some extent, and I began to see what a sinner I had been. I at once commenced reading my Bible and the little books, that I might learn more of my lost condition, and how to flee from the wrath to come. In the course of a day or two the captain observed that I was uneasy in my mind, and called me to him to ask if he could do any thing to aid me. I frankly told him all my trouble, and he at once pointed me to "the Lamb of G.o.d, who takes away the sin of the world." He then gradually and clearly unfolded to me the great gospel plan of redemption; and kneeling down together, he prayed most fervently for me. After a few days of deep solicitude and constant prayer to Almighty G.o.d, he, in his infinite mercy, shed light upon my soul, and I felt that Christ had died for me--_even me_. O Jack, then it was that I first tasted true joy--that joy which the world cannot give, and which the world cannot take away; that peace of mind which pa.s.seth understanding. And with G.o.d's aid, I have ever since tried to walk close in the way prescribed by him; and I trust that my dear father's dying prayer will indeed be answered, and that we shall all meet in heaven.

JACK. Well, Tom, I congratulate you, for although I make no pretensions to religion myself, I sincerely respect it in others--that is, where it is genuine, as I am sure it is in your case; but I can't stand playing soldier in religion, Tom, as I have seen it done by some hypocrites.

TOM. So much the worse for them, Jack. But, my dear fellow, I advise you, as a friend, not to put off seeking religion another day. _This day_ may be your last, Jack. Don't you remember the story of the rich man in Scripture, who said, "Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry?" But G.o.d said unto him, "Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee." O Jack, don't put off this most important of all works to a dying bed, for you may not have one; you may be called into eternity at a moment's warning.

You surely have not forgotten the awful death of swearing Joe Swifter, who was shaken off the yard into the boiling sea in that terrible night off the Canaries, when we were all aloft close reefing the Alert's maintopsail? And, Jack, can you ever forget his cry of agony as we shot ahead in the gale, forced to leave him to perish? I am sure it will haunt _me_ to my dying hour. Poor Joe, thou wert called with all thy sins upon thy head into the presence of an offended G.o.d.

JACK. Poor Joe. I remember it as if it had occurred but yesterday, Tom.