Select Temperance Tracts Part 26

It was an awful warning; and I don't think there were three oaths sworn on board the Alert for three days after. To tell the truth, Tom, I have had some queer feelings about death and the judgment, lately; and although I tried hard to drown them in grog, they would come up in spite of me. But I'll tell you more about it when we reach your lodgings, where we will be quiet and uninterrupted. You got safely back, I hope?

TOM. Yes, Jack, thanks to a kind Providence. I made two more voyages with the same captain; and I expect to go with him next trip as mate. I have been able to send my sister a snug little sum to keep her comfortable; and I have something handsome in the seamen's savings bank, as I told you before; together with a clear head and a happy heart; trusting in my G.o.d, and loving all who bear his image. Now, Jack, what do you think of temperance?

JACK. Think of it? Why, Tom, I always _thought_ well of it, though I can't say that I have latterly _practised_ it much; but I like it now better than ever. I have ruminated a good deal upon its evils, both at sea and ash.o.r.e. Don't you think, Tom, that rum is at the bottom of nine out of ten of the floggings that take place in the navy?

TOM. Yes, indeed, Jack, I am sure of it. And I think, moreover, that if it were discarded _entirely_ from the government and merchant service, insubordination and floggings would be of rare occurrence in the one, and trouble and mutiny in the other. And there would be fewer vessels and lives lost in the merchant-service, in the bargain.

JACK. I have often thought, Tom, what a degrading thing that flogging is. It sinks a man below the level of a brute, both in his own and the eyes of others. It seems to me that if I had ever been triced up at the gratings, and had a stroke of the cat, it would have completely crushed my spirit, if it had not broken my heart outright.

TOM. I think it would have had the same effect on me too, Jack. I am sure I could not have stood it.

JACK. And, Tom, to show more of the bad effects of liquor, I remember that I was once in Port-au-Prince, in the island of St. Domingo, during the sickly season, when a fearful mortality raged among the s.h.i.+pping, so that every vessel lost some of her men; most of them bringing on the yellow-fever by their intemperance. There were three s.h.i.+ps that were left without a man; all were swept off from the captain to the cook.

TOM. Awful, Jack, awful. I have also seen many a stout and n.o.ble-hearted tar, in those yellow-fever countries, stowed away under a foot of earth for the landcrabs to feed upon, just from drinking rum, or the strong brandy of the country. I'll tell you what it is, Jack, when the coppers are scalded by rum, physic can't get a hold--it is just like casting anchor on a rocky bottom--and so the grip of the grim monster Death is sure. The only safe man there, as well as everywhere else, indeed, is the teetotaler.

JACK. What is a teetotaler, Tom? I have often heard the term, without fully knowing what it meant.

TOM. A teetotaler, Jack, is one who conscientiously abstains from every description of intoxicating drink: rum, whiskey, brandy, gin, cordials, wine, cider, ale, and even beer.

JACK. What, Tom, you don't mean to say that you give such a wide berth to _beer_? Tell that to the marines, for old sailors won't believe it.

TOM. I do say it, Jack. I give even beer a wide berth. Don't you know that it contains alcohol? And what is perhaps worse, there is but little beer and ale made for sale that does not contain many hurtful ingredients--poisonous drugs. No, no; nothing for me that can in the slightest degree affect my n.o.ble reason, that great gift of Almighty G.o.d. Pure cold water--Adam's sparkling, life-invigorating ale--and coffee and tea, are my beverages. Try them once, Jack, and the word of an honest sailor for it, you will never go back to alcohol, or any of its accursed family.

JACK. Well, Tom, I think I will. The fact is, you seem to be so well in body and happy in mind, so comfortable and respectable in worldly matters, and speak so cheeringly of another world--to which I know that the rapid current of time is hurrying us both--that I'll follow in your wake, and try to make a little headway in these things myself.

TOM. Well said, my hearty. Give me another shake of your honest fist.

Now I begin to recognize my old true-hearted friend and messmate Jack Halyard in his early days, when we swore friends.h.i.+p to each other across the sea-chest, on board the Alert. You are the man for me, Jack; so come up with me at once to the Sailor's Home, and I'll rig you out a little more decently--make you look a little more s.h.i.+pshape--and to-night we will go to the great temperance-meeting at the seamen's bethel chapel, and you shall sign the pledge, which will be the wisest act of your life, Jack, as I'll wager a barrel of pork against a mouldy biscuit: aye, I'll warrant me you will say so at some future day. There will be plenty of blue-jackets there that will lend a hand in so good a cause.

JACK. Well, heave ahead, old messmate. I did think of _tapering off_--quitting by degrees--but perhaps the safest and easiest plan will be, _to break off at once_.

TOM. That is the way, Jack, the only true way. Tapering off is not what it is cracked up to be. It is very hazardous; for it keeps up excitement, and the taste of the liquor hangs about the palate. Don't you remember Ben Hawser, one of the best maintopmen of the Alert--he who saved the first Luff from drowning at Port Mahon, when he fell overboard from the cutter?

JACK. Surely I do, Tom. Do you suppose I could forget such a n.o.ble-hearted fellow as Ben Hawser--as fine a fellow as ever laid out upon a yard, or stood at the wheel; and such a firstrate marlinespike seaman in the bargain? No, indeed.

TOM. You are right, Jack. He was a n.o.ble fellow, and a thorough seaman.

There was nothing of the lubber about poor Ben: always the first man at his duty, and ready to share his last copper with a fellow-mortal in distress, whether seaman or landsman. Well, Ben once got into a great frolic ash.o.r.e, and kicked up such a bobbery that the watchman clapped him in limbo for the night; and the justice next morning gave him such a clapper-clawing with his tongue, and bore down upon him so hard with his _reprimands_, as I think the lawyers call it, and raked him so severely fore and aft with his good advice, to wind up with, that Ben felt pretty sheepish; and, as he told us afterwards, didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels--on the truck, or on the keelson. He felt so sore about it, and so much ashamed of himself, that he did not touch a drop for six weeks. He then thought he would take it _moderately_ just enough to keep the steam up--or, as some folks say, he thought he would be a _temperate drinker_. O, Jack, that _temperate drinking_ is a famous net of old Satan's to catch fools in. Your temperate drinker treads on slippery ground; for as I verily believe that alcohol is one of the most active imps for the destruction of both body and soul, the temperate drinker is too often gradually led on by the fiend, until the habit becomes fixed and inveterate; and he drags a galling chain, each day riveted more strongly, and the poor wretch hourly becomes more callous to shame, until he sinks into the grave--_the drunkard's grave_.

JACK. But, Tom, you don't mean to say that poor Ben's reel has been run off in that style, do you?

TOM. Indeed, Jack, it is true, and sorry am I that it is so. Yes, I followed the worn-out hulk of Ben Hawser to the dark and silent grave a fortnight ago. He slipped his cable in the prime of life; and all along of _temperate drinking_ at first. Ben, like many other men, thought he was strong-minded, and could stop at a certain point; but he found, to his cost, that king Alcohol was stronger, and that when once he had forged his chains around his victim, he was sure of him, unless the grace of a merciful G.o.d intervened, and plucked him as a brand from the burning. So I advise every one to beware of _temperate drinking_. Give it a wide berth, or it may wreck you for time and for eternity.

One thing more, Jack. I would like your temperate drinker to pause, and reflect upon the fact, that the quant.i.ty of brandy or rum that he took at a drink, when he commenced this downhill course, has been gradually increased; so that in the second year, what had been quite sufficient to please his palate and produce all the desired effects in the first, was then insipidly small; and more so in the third year, if, mayhap, he could with any decency lay claim to the t.i.tle of _temperate drinker_ so long. Jack, this is a fearful reflection for one of this cla.s.s of the slaves of alcohol; but let him think upon it when quite free from excitement, say after two or three days' abstinence--if he can abstain that long just to cool off for reflection--and I'll warrant he will tremble at the prospect.

Besides, Jack, the _influence_ of your temperate drinker is ten times worse than that of the confirmed and notorious drunkard; for it is not likely that any one in his senses would desire to copy the confirmed sot in his beastliness. No, indeed; he would shrink with horror from the intoxicating bowl, if he felt sure that such would be the result to him, if he indulged. But he should remember, that no one ever became a sot _at once_; the degradation was by degrees. And it may be that your temperate drinker is a respectable and thriving man in the eyes of the world--say a great merchant, or lawyer, or master of a s.h.i.+p--and small folks do not imagine they are in any danger when they see such men stand fast, as they think: but they had all better remember the advice in Scripture, "Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall;"

and so they follow in the wake, and perhaps nine out of ten go down to the grave _drunkards_; often, I am sure, in company with the very men whose example they thought so safe, but which led them to certain ruin.

It is an awful thought, Jack, that we have been the means of misleading others, either by example or precept; and one that will weigh like lead upon the conscience of many a man on his death-bed. No, no; my motto is, "TOUCH NOT, TASTE NOT, HANDLE NOT." The wise man of Scripture knew what he was about when he said, "Look not upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup; at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." The same wise man said also, that "the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty." But, Jack, what are poverty and shame, bad as they are, in comparison with the loss of the soul? Think of that--_the loss of the immortal soul_--for G.o.d says, that neither thieves, nor drunkards, nor any thing that defileth, shall enter heaven. And O, Jack, to think of being cast into h.e.l.l for ever, with the devil and his angels; how awful! _but such must be the fate of the unrepentant drunkard_.

JACK. Awful, indeed, Tom. I am now fully persuaded that you are right; and so I'll follow your good example, and sign the teetotal pledge. And what is more, I'll try to be a Christian too, for I believe that religion is the best security against every kind of temptation.

TOM. I like that, Jack; it is truth itself. So we will shape our course for the Sailor's Home, under the direction of that n.o.ble inst.i.tution, "The American Seamen's Friend Society;" there you will be out of the way of temptation, and there is a good deal in that--and to-night we will go to the Bethel. By the way, Jack, you can't think what excellent places these Homes are for the poor tempest-tossed mariner; and how snug and comfortable we all are there. The rules of the houses are excellent; neither swearing nor drinking is allowed; and every night and morning we unite with the families in wors.h.i.+p; and on the Sabbath, and some of the evenings of the week, we are kindly invited to the Bethel chapel, where we have excellent preaching on the word of G.o.d; and in the family prayers, the good of us poor sailors, for time and eternity, is not forgotten, I can tell you. It reminds me of the days of my boyhood, when my dear father called us together, morning and evening, to praise G.o.d; and also of the happy time I have spent with my present good captain.

And then, Jack, when any of us are sick they are so kind and attentive just like our own dear mothers and sisters. I saw how kindly poor Martin Gray was treated during his long illness, by the manager--a worthy old salt--and his excellent family; and how they smoothed his dying pillow, and did all they could to make his way easy towards the dark valley of the shadow of death. Oh, Jack, it is a great thing to fall in with real Christians at such a time. It makes one think of the poor man in Scripture who fell among thieves, and had his wounds dressed and care taken of him by the good Samaritan. Aye, aye, Jack; and I know, moreover, that the good example and excellent advice in these houses have been the means, in the Lord's hands, of saving both the body and soul of many a poor neglected, weather-beaten tar, who would otherwise have fallen into the jaws of the devouring sharks who are always on the watch, with open mouths, to prey upon the poor son of ocean, and to swallow him up without pity or remorse.

JACK. Well, heave ahead, my hearty; I'm the lad that won't flinch. So, three cheers for the glorious Temperance cause, for Sailor's Homes and Bethels, and for the mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts of all true-hearted seamen. And let every jolly tar who loves his family and domestic peace, and wants to do his duty and be respected in this world, and lay an anchor to windward of another and better world, toe the plank, and sign the pledge right off the reel. Huzza, huzza, huzza.

THE OX SERMON.

Among the laws given by the divine Lawgiver through Moses to the Jews, was the following: "If an ox gore a man or a woman that they die, then the ox shall be surely stoned; but the owner of the ox shall be quit.

But if the ox _were wont to push_ with his horn in time past, and it hath been testified to his owner, and he hath not kept him in, but he hath killed a man or a woman, the ox shall be stoned, and his owner also shall be put to death." Exod. 21: 28, 29.

The principle of this law is a very plain one, and a very broad one--here applied in a specific case, but extending to ten thousand others. It is this. Every man is responsible to G.o.d for the evils which result from his selfishness, or his indifference to the welfare of others.

Ages before this law was given, G.o.d says to Noah, "Your blood of your lives will I require: at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man." A stigma shall be fixed upon man or beast that shall destroy him who is made after the similitude of G.o.d. But why, in the case first supposed, is the owner quit, or guiltless? Simply because the death is not in any way the result of his carelessness or of his selfishness. From any thing within his knowledge, he had no reason to expect such a result. But if the ox hath been _wont to push_ with his horns, and he knew it, he shall be responsible for the consequences, whatever they may be; for he had every reason to expect that mischief would be done, and took no measures to prevent it. And if the ox kill a man or woman, the owner hath done the murder, and he shall be put to death. Why? The death was the result of his selfishness, or his indifference to the lives of others. And according to the law of G.o.d, his life shall go for it. The principle of this law is a principle of common-sense.

You see a fellow-creature struggling in the water. You know that he can never deliver himself. And you know that a very little a.s.sistance, such as you can render, will rescue him from a watery grave. You look on and pa.s.s by. True, you did not thrust him in. But he dies by your neglect.

His blood will be upon your head. At the bar of G.o.d, and at the bar of conscience, you are his murderer. Why? You did not kill him. Neither did the owner of the ox lift a hand. _But he shall surely be put to death._ You had no malice, neither had he. You did not intend his death--at the very worst, you did not care. This is just his crime. He did not care.

He turned loose a wild, fiery, ungovernable animal, knowing him to be such; and what mischief that animal might do, or what suffering he might cause, _he did not care_. But G.o.d held him responsible.

Every man is responsible for evils which result from his own selfishness or indifference to the lives of men. In other words, to make a man responsible for results, it is not necessary to prove that he has malice, or that he intended the results. The highwayman has no malice against him he robs and murders, nor does he desire his death, but his money; and if he can get the money, he does not care. And he robs and murders because he loves himself and does not care for others; acting in a different way, but on the same selfish principle with the owner of the ox; and on the very same principle is he held responsible.

In the trial of the owner of the ox, the only questions to be asked were these two: Was the ox _wont to push_ with his horn in time past? Did the owner _know it_ when he let him loose? If both these questions were answered in the affirmative, the owner was responsible for all the consequences. This is a rule which G.o.d himself has established.

Is INTOXICATING LIQUOR wont to produce misery, and wretchedness, and death? Has this been testified to those who make and deal in it as a beverage? If these two things can be established, the inference is inevitable--they are responsible on a principle perfectly intelligible, a principle recognized and proclaimed, and acted upon by G.o.d himself.

Turn then your attention to these two facts. 1. Intoxicating liquor _is wont to produce misery_. 2. Those who make or traffic in it, _know_ this.

1. Upon the first point it will be sufficient to remind you of the hopes which intoxicating liquor has blasted, and the tears it has caused to flow. Let any one of us count up the number of its victims which we have known--consider their character and standing in society--their once happy families and prospects, and what a fearful change has a few years'

use of strong drink produced. Very few but remember twenty, thirty, fifty, or one hundred families ruined in this way. Some of them were once our intimate friends--and their story is soon told.

They drank occasionally, for the sake of company, or merely for exhilaration. The relish for stimulants was thus acquired, and habits of dissipation formed. They became idle, and of course uneasy. And they continued to drink, partly to gratify taste and partly to quiet conscience. They saw the ruin that was coming upon them, and they made some earnest but ineffectual struggles against it. But the resistance became weaker and weaker--by and by the struggle is ended--they float with the current, and where are they? One has been found by the temperance reformation, a mere wreck in property, character, body, and mind, and reclaimed. Another is dead: his const.i.tution could not bear his continued dissipation. Another died in a fit; another was found by the road-side one cold morning, a stiffened corpse. Another was thrown from his horse, and is a cripple for life, but still can contrive means to pay a daily visit to the dram-shop. Another is a mere vagabond, unprincipled and shameless--wandering from shop to shop, a fit companion for the lowest company, a nuisance to society and a curse to his kindred. Another is in the penitentiary for a crime which he committed in a drunken frolic.

Go into the crowded court-house and you may see another; his countenance haggard and ghastly, and his eye wildly rolling in despair. What has he done? One night, after spending all his money for drink, and loitering about till all the shops were closed, he returned to his miserable habitation. He found a few coals on the hearth, and his wife and children sitting by them. He threw one child this way and another that, for he was cold. His wife remonstrated, and withal told him that what little fire there was was none of his providing. With many a horrid oath he declared he would not be scolded after that sort. He would let her know who should govern, and by way of supporting his authority, beat her brains out with the last remaining stick of wood. He did not mean to kill her. Her dying struggles brought him to his senses, and he stood horror-struck. He would give almost any thing that the deed were not done. If that could restore her to life, he would be almost ready to give a pledge never to taste intoxicating liquor again. Now look at the wretchedness of his family. For years he has made very little provision for them; they have lived as they could, half naked and half starved, and not educated at all--with a most wretched example before their eyes.

What encouragement had the wife or the children to attempt any thing--to make any exertion? The children are abused and trampled on at home, and they grow up without self-respect, without shame, and without principle.

Can any thing good be expected of them? And if they do rise, it must be through a world of difficulty.

How many thousand families have been ruined in some such way as this.

The father was a drunkard, and the mother--what could she do? She endured, hoping against hope--and for the children's sake bore up against the current; and many a time disguised a sad despairing heart under a joyful countenance, till at length she died of a broken heart, or died by the hands of him who had sworn to protect her.

These, and things like these, are the effects of intoxicating liquor--not casual, accidental, but common, natural edicts, seen everywhere, in every town, in every neighborhood, and in every connection. Look which way we will, we see some of these effects. The greatest wretchedness which human nature in this world is called to endure, is connected with the use of inebriating drink. There is nothing else that degrades and debases man like it--nothing so mean that a drunkard will not stoop to it--nothing too base for him to do to obtain his favorite drink. Nothing else so sinks the whole man--so completely destroys not only all moral principle, but all self-respect, all regard to character, all shame, all human feeling. The drunkard can break out from every kind of endearing connection, and break over every kind of restraint; so completely extinct is human feeling, that he can be drunk at the funeral of his dearest relative, and call for drink in the last accents of expiring nature.

Now look at a human being, whom G.o.d has made for n.o.ble purposes, and endowed with n.o.ble faculties, degraded, disgraced, polluted, unfit for heaven, and a nuisance on earth. He is the centre of a circle--count up his influence in his family and his neighborhood--the wretchedness he endures, and the wretchedness he causes--count up the tears of a wretched wife who curses the day of her espousals, and of wretched children who curse the day of their birth. To all this positive evil which intoxicating liquor has caused, add the happiness which but for it this family might have enjoyed and communicated. Go through a neighborhood or a town in this way, count up all the misery which follows in the train of intoxicating liquor, and you will be ready to ask, Can the regions of eternal death send forth any thing more deadly?

Wherever it goes, the same cry may be heard--lamentation, and mourning, and woe; and whatever things are pure, or lovely, or venerable, or of good report, fall before it. These are its effects. Can any man deny that "the ox is wont to push with his horn?"