1874 — Devonshire House Friends’ Meeting House, London UK

I remember when I was a very little girl in England, I used to learn some lines from one of Cowper’s poems, which I admired very greatly indeed. They began, “Slaves cannot breathe in England,” and went on to show that the very moment they set foot on English soil, that moment they were free. Now after being away from England twenty years, I return, and one of the first things I hear is, “There are 600,000 slaves in England.” I say that it is a remarkable thing; but what has become of the truth of Cowper’s lines, that we used so very much to like to learn, and that used to make us rejoice so much — that there were no slaves in England, but that all men here were free? And then I am told that the 600,000 are slaves of drink, to the bondage of custom, of fashion, and of liquor. Another thing I have been told, on very high authority, is that the people of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland spent in the year 1873, £133,500,000 sterling for intoxicating drinks. I could not have credited it, I had not had it on good authority, and if it had not been put in black and white before me — so much for the excise, so much for the customs, so much for the malt, and so forth. The revenue to the country being £30,000,000 out of the £133,500,000 that you drink up. In 1834, the British people paid £20,000,000 sterling to free their slaves. In 1873, they paid £30,000,000 to the Government revenue for the liberty to make slaves. When I was talking to a gentleman a few days ago, and saying what a fearful thing it was, and how I wished that every drop of liquor could be sunk into the bottom of the Atlantic, he said, “The British Government must inevitably collapse in a case like that.” But, oh! what do we get in return for that revenue? — Criminals, paupers and prisoners. It is the same in your country as it is in mine, probably worse. I have visited 115,000 prisoners in the United States during the last eighteen years, and out of that number 105,000 seemed to have been brought there, either directly or indirectly, through liquor. I have visited the inmates of poor-houses to the number of 75,000, and out of that number it is supposed that 65,000 and more, could trace their poverty and distress, and coming to the poor-house, to the same cause. And now a word with regard to this slavery. If my dear friend, Anna R. Whiting, had been here I am sure she could have described to you scenes that she has witnessed in England, and that her sister in Liverpool has witnessed. She could tell you of scenes something like this: A little boy found dying, his mother away, intoxicated in a public-house, and her only child, with none but dogs for his companions, in his dying hour. Oh! what terrible slavery must that be! I have heard A.R.W. tell some of the thrilling scenes that she has witnessed in England, and though I have not seen so much here as she has, yet I can give you a picture of slavery as it was in America some few years ago; I would like to introduce you to a young woman, a Quadroon, with her baby, two years old, in her arms. She is about to be put up to the auction-block to be sold. There are crowds of people around who are bidding for the young woman. She takes her child up in her arms and clasps it with an agonising sense that it is about to be separated from her. In a few minutes she is ordered to put down the little girl. She resists. She will not part with her. It is torn from her arms, and set aside by some hard-hearted people who have no love for it, and the little pleading voice of the child is heard above the tumult crying, “Mammy, mammy! take me!” And then the overseer, with his heavy whip, threatens the child, and uses rough and brutal language to it. Presently, as the child still cries every now and then, “Mammy! mammy! mammy!” down comes the heavy whip on the neck, the shoulders, the head, and even the face of the little tender child of two years; but in spite of all, the mother’s feeling is there — the mother’s strong, loving, tender feeling. That slavery did not and could not destroy the mother’s feeling for her child, but the slavery that both your country and mine are groaning under, the slavery of the intoxicating cup, takes away all better feelings, destroys the fatherly instincts and the mother’s love, and all the noble and generous feelings in the hearts of its victims.

A dear friend of mine was walking through one of our large towns in the United States, and, as she proceeded, she passed by a group of boys, and heard one of them make use of profane language. She turned quickly, and laid her hand on the head of a little boy about eight years old, half-starved, barefooted and ragged, and said, “Is this the little boy I heard swear?” One of his companions answered jeeringly, “No, he don’t swear; he prays.” And then the mother’s heart was drawn out towards the little boy with great sympathy. She found out that the child was all covered with bruises inflicted by his own father’s hand, that father being a slave to the intoxicating cup. This slavery had destroyed his manhood and his pity, for his cruelty had been the cause of the death of a good and pious wife, and the little boy said, “It’s so hard to be good, now that mother’s dead. Mother died three weeks ago, and now I have no one to pray with me, and to teach me to pray, and to teach me to be good. Then the question was put by my friend, “Has thou no father, then.” The little boy said, “Oh yes, I have a father, but father isn’t like mother. Father don’t pray. Father drinks and swears and strikes me.” And so the little fellow, having found a sympathetic ear, poured into it the tale of his sorrow. He had not had half enough to eat his appearance showed; the condition of his clothes was wretched, and his body bore the marks of the ill-usage he had received; and yet that little boy could remember the time when his father was a kind man, when he used to come home sober in the evening; but all that was before he began to drink. The child could also tell how his father had been good to mother before he began to drink, but now mother was dead, and it was “so hard to be good now!” And then the little boy acknowledged, in answer to my friend’s questions, “that father came home drunk last night and beat me cruelly, and this morning sent me away without my breakfast, and I am so hungry.” My friend led him to a baker’s shop to give him something to satisfy the cravings of hunger, and when he had made a good meal she said, “I want thee to take me to the house where thy father spends his time and money in drinking.” The little boy looked frightened. “I dare not go,” he said, “he will whip me if he knows I told you.” She promised not to tell, and then prevailed on child to walk with her to the place. When he had led her to the house he drew back, afraid of being seen by that father who had once been a kind and good man. The little slave baby was not afraid of her mother, she loved her mother, and the mother loved her. This father, the slave to the drink, had lost his love to his child; he had caused by his brutality the death of the best of wives, and the little boy was afraid of his father seeing him. He just designated his father to my friend, who said to the boy: “Now I want thee to go home, and kneel down and pray to the Lord Jesus, that he will help me to bring thy father home, and soon we will go to your home together.” The little boy said, “No, he won’t come.” “Oh, yes,” said this praying woman — “the trusting child of the Lord — he will surely come, for the Lord Jesus has promised that if two of us should ask Him for anything. He will grant it; do thou go home and ask Him, and I will ask Him also.’ And the little boy went home, and that servant of the Lord lifted up her heart to her Saviour, asking Him to go with her, and He gave her words to speak to reach the hearts of those who were in the public-house. She went right into it, and saw eight or ten men drinking — it being only eleven o’clock in the morning. She looked steadily at the father of the boy, and said “Is this the man who has a little hungry, neglected, motherless boy at home?” The man looked at her fiercely, and said — “Who told you about my boy?”

She didn’t answer that question, but just replied by a very earnest appeal to the whole company, and preached to them of “righteousness” temperance, and judgment to come. Some of them trembled, and were filled with fear, and some listened to what she had to say, and many of them, when she had done, went out of that place with her. She then walked along the street with the father of the child, and said “I want thee to take me to thy home.” “Oh, no,” he said, “it’s not a fit place for you; there has been no woman in it since the day my dead wife was carried away.” She said, “I will go with thee.” She prevailed upon him, and they went to his home together, and there, kneeling down in one corner, was the little boy with his hands clasped in prayer.

My friend took the profane drinking man by the hand, and said to him, “Thy little boy is kneeling down praying to his Saviour; come, let us kneel down and pray with him.” The father resisted a little while, and said “I can’t remember a prayer — I have never prayed once in my life since I was a child”; but she persuaded him, and presently he knelt down beside her, and there the three weretogether, the holy praying woman, with the little boy on one side and the father on the other, lifting up her voice to God in prayer. And it seemed as though the very heavens were opened, and the prayer went right up to the Mercy Seat, and brought instant blessing down, for in a few minutes that rough man was broken down, and every now and then responded to her prayer by a sincere and earnest “Amen.” When she had finished she said, “Now I want thee to pray for thyself.” “Oh! I cannot,” he said. The tears were flowing, and every now and then a deep sigh escaped him. “Oh, tell me,” he exclaimed, “what to say; I do not know what to say”; and then she said to the poor contrite sinner, “Say, God be merciful to me a sinner, for Jesus’ sake,” and he repeated the words after her.

The prayer of the poor man rose up to heaven that day, and I doubt not the song was heard that had been heard 1,800 years previously, only it was of a sinner of a different stamp —

“Behold he prayeth,” and there was joy in heaven over a sinner who had repented. When he rose from his knees my friend told him that now it was the will of the Lord that this very hour should be the turning point in his life, that he should leave off drinking and gambling, that he should leave off going to the public-houses, and that he should commence praying earnestly, attending the prayer-meeting and the place of worship; and before she left the city, she heard that he had been six times to the prayer-meeting or place of worship, and that he had asked for the prayers of the congregation in the Methodist meeting; and we heard later still that he was continuing to hold out steadily, and being a skilful mechanic was earning sixteen shillings a day — a little more perhaps in the middle of summer and a little less in the middle of winter. What a pity that such a one should have been spending his time and money in the alehouse and ginshop! His little boy was now well fed, clothed, and going to school; the man had joined the Methodist Church, and was rejoicing in his Saviour, in the sense that his sins were forgiven; and he was a happy man looking forward in the hope of meeting the beloved wife, whom he had treated with such great cruelty, in that better land beyond the grave. Which slavery is the worst — that which separates families but still leaves the loving feeling in the heart of the mother and child, or that which brutalises the father, and takes away all the love of his heart and all his interest in his wife and child? I think we may say, without using strong language, the curse of these two nations, America and Great Britain, is strong drink. The two greatest nations upon the face of the earth, the two in which are to be found the most schools, the most Bibles, the most places of worship, and probably the most worshippers — to think that in these two great nations there should be this terrible and deadly iniquity, and such a vast amount of liquor consumed; 60,000 in this land, and nearly as many in my own, every year going down to a drunkard’s grave — I say to think of all this should stir the heart of every one to help to remove so great amass of evil. It should raise the question, “What can we do to help it?” I am endeavouring to do what I can by speaking to you this evening. But some may say, “We cannot do that, and therefore we can do nothing.” We have, every one of us, influence which we might throw in to aid the efforts of those who are labouring for the suppression of intemperance. If there is ever to be a change in this land or in the United States, in the drinking usages of the people, it will have to commence amongst the religious people and amongst those, who, perhaps, may be called the upper classes. It is of no use to invite the poor drunkard to sign the pledge, if others will not sign it with him. Your names are wanted to give sanction and respectability to the pledge, and to help on the great temperance reformation. The American ladies are doing a great deal in the work. In Michigan much effort has been put forth since I left home, and is highly spoken of by some of our ablest writers and thinkers. The ladies have made a movement of this kind in this and other States. They have met and endeavoured, by their prayers and little meetings, to effect a change for the better in the drinking habits of the people. Some of these ladies are of the highest rank and social position, and I can only bid them God-speed, and hope that they will prosper in their work. It may be that this method of work would not do for the English people. There they have adopted eight pledges which have been found very useful. One of them is simply “We will abstain from the intoxicating draught.” The next is “We will not offer it to others;” another, “We will not have it in our homes;” the fourth is a declaration which we hand to grocers in the city, requesting them to sign the pledge, and not sell any intoxicating liquors. If they will sign such a pledge, the ladies on their part will sign a pledge that they will deal with them in preference to those who do sell the intoxicating draught. Thus we may help each other very much. Then there is another pledge that is presented to the physician, and a great number have signed it — that they will not prescribe intoxicating liquor if anything else can be found to answer — and the ladies have signed a pledge that they wall prefer such physicians, and such chemists and druggists to any others. There were some Good Templars in Indiana, who were very vigilant and doing a good work amongst the intemperate. A man there was selling liquor against the law, and the Templars prosecuted him, and he was fined for it. When he paid his fine, he went on again, and a second and a third time this was done. The ladies of the place had a prayer meeting, and they thought that something must be done by them. If the men could not prevail by law, they would try and prevail by the Gospel, with love, charity, kindness, gentleness, and the prayer of faith. Four of them used to go every evening and take their seats in that prayer meeting in the place where the liquor was being drunk. They had a little piece of knitting or something that didn’t require much thought, and there they sat for hours. They behaved with great courtesy and kindness to the proprietor, and they tried all they could to persuade him to give up his avocation. Whether he would have done so or not is uncertain, but, finding that his craft was in danger and that he could not sell liquor, he was at length prevailed upon to give it up, and commenced business as a butcher, when they did all they could to support him. I think something can be done in that way by the churches. The question was put to Mr. Moody. He has been a friend of mine for eight years, and in Chicago I have used his pulpit several times. The question put to him was with reference to intemperance, and he said, “There have been more questions in my question drawer on the subject of intemperance than any other.” He came into a meeting in Dublin with a large bundle of papers, all of them about intoxicating drinks. He was asked whether a converted man, who had given his heart to the Lord, could continue to be a distiller, or engage in the selling of intoxicating liquors, and he said, “I want it to be understood that I stand upon the teetotal platform fair and square. If any man is in doubt whether he is right in selling that which is poison to others, just let him kneel down by a cask of whisky and see whether he can ask God’s blessing on his trade, and if he cannot, why that will be his clear and distinct answer. It is not right and lawful to do anything upon which God’s blessing cannot be asked.” Then comes the question “How are those to get out of the traffic who are engaged in it?” I have heard of some who are very uneasy because they are in the trade, and they do not know how to get out of it. It seems to me that it is a question the church should take up, so that the burden should not be borne simply by the few. Let each separate branch of the church take it up. I will allude to the Friends especially, because it is the body to which I belong, and because this is their place of worship. Suppose they say, “We do not approve of our members selling or making, intoxicating liquors.” Oh, try to encourage them to give it up, and if some of those members say, “Well, it is a hard thing for us; it will be sacrificing our whole living and property;” let the church take the burden upon itself, and enable them to enter upon something that will give them a blessing; there would be a great gain to the body if this were done.

Certainly, it is trying for persons engaged in the liquor traffic to feel that they cannot ask God’s blessing upon it, and when the time of death comes, what a fearful time for them! How terrible to look forward into the future world for some one who will say, “He tempted me to drink!” “He made the liquor I drank!” Our dear friend, Caroline Talbot, saw a man unloading a cask of whisky, and, in doing so, he hurt his finger. He swore very much at the accident, and C.T. spoke to him. The proprietor of the distillery stepped out as she was about commencing to read to the men a little tract she held in her hand, entitled, “The Swearer’s Prayer.” The employer said, “These men are in my employ, and I will thank you not to hinder them; their time is precious.” She answered, with a pleasant smile, “I dare say they are, and that their time is very precious, but I have a tract here, and it will not take long to read, perhaps it will suit thy case as well as theirs.” The gentleman looked on in utter amazement, but remained there until she had finished reading her tract. By that time she had a congregation of some twenty-five or thirty people. She told them she was to speak in the Methodist church in the evening, and invited them all to be present. The man with the hurt finger said “I will be there,” his employer said the same, and 60 said the others. In the evening she saw them coming into the meeting. It was one to unfold the truths of the Gospel, and she felt, as many ministers do, that it was right to preach of “righteousness, and temperance, and judgment to come.” Consequently, amongst other things, she preached against intemperance, and the still greater iniquity of making money out of that which spread desolation and ruin around, and she used this rather remarkable expression, “I would rather walk through the streets, and beg my bread from door to door, or sit like Lazarus waiting for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table, than I would ride through the streets of your city in chariots of gold, drawn by elegant horses purchased with the price of the precious souls of men.” She made a most earnest and thrilling appeal to them, founded on the text, “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul”? The result of her faithful pleading was this — many hearts were stirred there, and the distiller shortly after gave up his business, and spent some thousands of dollars of his ill-gotten gold in helping the inebriate asylums, and caring for the widows, wives, and children of drunkards. There is a very simple text in the Bible that might apply to some one present, “Go, and do thou likewise.” Through the earnest pleading of that one feeble Christian woman, this change was brought about; through the earnest pleading of the same individual, the little boy’s father of whom I have been speaking, was converted under the blessing of God. I must tell you of an incident in connection with our war. It shows the deadly nature of the two great evils of war and intemperance.

[Here E.L.C. related the pathetic story of “Poor Harry,” . . . 

I was walking from one hospital to another, when I saw a man digging what seemed to be a grave at the roadside. I stopped and spoke to him as he worked with his pickaxe and shovel, and said, “It looks to me like a grave thou art digging.” He replied, “I am digging a grave.” “Well,” I said, “that is an extraordinary place for a grave — why is it not in the cemetery or churchyard?’ To which he replied that the grave he was digging was for “a young man who was living and well.” From him and some ladies who gathered round me, I heard a part of the dismal history, which was afterwards corroborated, and completed the story of poor Harry, the only son of a widowed mother, far away in Minnesota. His father had died when he was a little infant, in a fit of delirium tremens. The mother had moved to a distant part of the country, where he was not known, and carefully shielded her little boy and girl from knowing how their father had died, and from ever tasting the intoxicating draught. The boy had been all that a loving mother could wish till he grew up to be eighteen years of age, when the war broke out, and he enlisted in the army. Thinking she was doing a brave and a right act, the poor widow gave up her only son, to fight for his country; and, taking leave of him at the railway station, as he went to join his regiment, her parting charge, as she placed her little Bible in his hand, was, “Harry, do not neglect your Bible, do not neglect prayer, do not forget your Saviour, and remember your promise to your mother — you have promised me that you will never drink.”

Eight months had scarcely passed away after leaving his mother, until he was court-martialled and sentenced to be shot. He had been placed under a drinking captain, who had invited him to drink with him. For awhile, he steadily refused, saying, “I have promised my mother that I will never drink.”  After a time, it became evident that the vindictive-spirited captain resented his refusal to drink with him as an insult. One of the young soldier’s comrades said to him, “Harry, you are getting out with your captain, you had better not offend him or it will be the worse for you.”

Finding that he was losing the captain’s favour, Harry consulted a lady at whose house he sometimes visited, who gave him this advice, after hearing the story of his promise to his mother and the captain’s invitation to him to drink; “Harry, if your mother knew all the circumstances, she would absolve you from your promise. You know you need not drink to excess, but just take a glass with the captain, if he invites you again, to show good fellowship.” Poor Harry followed the advice, and it was soon evident that he had inherited his father’s weakness. No sooner had he tasted the intoxicating draught than he craved for more, and, under its influence, soon lost all self-control, and rapidly ran his down-hill career, until, after frequent acts of insubordination and drunkenness, he, one day, knocked his captain down, was tried by court-martial, and sentenced to be shot. While I was listening to this sad story, unusual sights and sounds attracted my attention. I heard the approaching solemn death march of a company of soldiers, their muffled drums beating, who came and arranged themselves on one side of a square, another occupied a second side, and another a third side, and with the third, in a wagon, seated upon his own coffin, a common pine box, was young Harry.

The young soldier was led out to a rising knoll, and twelve soldiers placed in front, armed with guns, taken up indiscriminately, six of which were loaded with bullets, and six with blank cartridges, that they might not know who fired the fatal shots. I entreated the officer commanding, to delay the execution of the sentence for twenty-four hours, that I might have time to hasten to Washington and report the case to our noble President, Abraham Lincoln. The officer refused to grant my request, and would not even allow me to speak to the prisoner, being urged on by the resentful captain, who had caused all poor Harry’s troubles, to the immediate execution of the sentence. The General remarked that there had been so much drunkenness and insubordination among the soldiers, that they must make an example of Harry. Finding that I could not help him I hastened away, but did not get out of hearing until the signal was given, and the shots were fired that took away that young man’s life: and Harry fell, covered with wounds inflicted by his own brothers in arms. . . I went to Washington shortly after, and represented the case with several others to the Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton. That kind-hearted gentleman expressed much regret that such a circumstance should have transpired, adding, “It is one of the terrible exigencies of war, and such things will sometimes happen in the best regulated armies.” My heart was lifted up with the earnest petition, and I wished that all mothers and ministers of the Gospel would unite in the same —

Oh I hasten, great Father, the blest consummation.
When nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
When war shall no more be the Christian’s vocation,
When the spear shall be shivered, and broken the bow.]

She continued  — “I saw two mothers weeping in excessive grief, and one said to me,” I could have borne it if he had only been killed while doing duty to his country, but, she said, “my boy was butchered,” and so said the other mother. I asked what they meant, and amidst their sobs and tears, they told me that the regiment their sons belonged to had been surrounded on three sides by the enemy, who had been pouring into them a hot fire for nearly an hour, and that all the ammunition of the regiment had been spent. What was the reason of that? Why, the general in command had ordered them into that position, and the General was drunk. This required some investigation before I could make any complaint. I therefore made considerable inquiry, and think it was putting the thing too strongly to say he was drunk; but certainly he had drunk sufficient wine, by his own confession, to have somewhat dimmed his judgment, and that at a time when, humanly speaking, thousands of lives were in his hand. I went to the Secretary of War, and presented this case and two or three others. I stated them as things that ought not to be allowed to go on. Secretary Stanton was a very kind-hearted man, whose mother had been a member of the Society of Friends. His eyes filled with tears as I spoke about the poor widowed mother in Minnesota, and he said, “My dear madam, I am very sorry that such things should occur, but they are among the terrible exigencies of war. Such things will sometimes happen in the best regulated armies.” I thought what a terrible thing war must be, and if in the best regulated armies such things will inevitably happen, what must happen in the worst! and my prayer rose up then, and many a time since to this effect:

Oh! hasten, great Father, the blest consummation,
When nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
When war shall no more be the Christian’s vocation.
When the spear shall be shivered, and broken the bow.

It was a very interesting circumstance to me when in Ireland, on a visit which lasted some four months, to hear one day of an order, which had come down from headquarters, that every one of the ministers of the Presbyterian Church should preach a temperance sermon, and should read a manifesto on the same subject. If all the ministers of the gospel would preach of temperance, as well as of Righteousness, and of judgment to come, and practise it, and then if all the Christian people in the position of those gathered here this evening, would throw in their influence on the right side, there would be very soon a great difference made in the drinking usages of the country. I have visited many wealthy families in Ireland, where I find they are laying aside wine. I do not very often advocate the following of fashion, but should a fashion be started by the wealthy families not to introduce wine on their tables, I think it would be a very good one, and one I would recommend you all to follow. Some say that legislation will do so much, but I am rather of John Bright’s opinion, that legislation can do nothing until the minds of the people are more changed, because they will not otherwise carry it out. There must be, on the part of Christian people, a fire of love that is willing to renounce personal interests, tastes and pleasures, and, with the blessing of God on our efforts, the drinking usages of the land will be changed. Supposing the mothers of these 60,000 drunkards who exist in this present year had persuaded their children to sign the pledge when they were young, and they had kept it, what a difference there would be in those 60,000 persons. To those who wish to do the temperance cause a service by circulating literature, I cannot do better than recommend “The Little Captain,” and “The Fool’s Pence.” I have already heard of eight or ten cases in which the former has been very much blessed. In one large city, I heard of some who had given up the traffic in liquor from reading that book. There is a little incident connected with the tract called “The Fool’s Pence,” which I should like to relate. About twelve or fourteen years ago I was in Indiana, when the agent of the Tract Society was there, who had given me a very liberal supply of publications for gratuitous circulation. He said, “I want thee to read this tract, and to see whether it is suitable for ns to bring out a reprint of it.” As I was travelling in one of the railway cars, I took out the tract and read it, putting my name in pencil in the corner. A man very much the worse for liquor staggered in, and asked a gentleman near me where they sold liquor. Wishing to get rid of him, he said, “You will get some at the next shop,” and so the man passed on. As he passed me, I pushed this tract — “The Fool’s Pence” — into his pocket. A lady saw me and said, “That is what I call casting pearls before swine. What is the use of giving a tract to a drunken man?” I told her I had put the tract into the man’s pocket with a prayer for a blessing. Eight months passed away, and I was travelling again not fifty miles from that line, and missed connection with the train I wished to take. That gave me three or four hours to wait in the town where I was put down. I walked about for a long time, and as I was returning to the station, I saw a man sitting at a cottage door. He had two little boys beside him, and he was reading a tract. I went to the children to give them a picture-tract, and as I drew near, I observed the man was reading the tract entitled “The Fool’s Pence.” It is rather a striking looking tract, with a picture on the face of it. I said to him, “That is an interesting tract.” “Yes, very,” he said, and he put it into my hand, and there I saw, in faint pencil marks in the corner, my own name. Then immediately I remembered all about the tract I put into the man’s pocket in the car, and I asked “Where did you get that tract?” He looked a little embarrassed, and I felt at liberty to indulge my curiosity still further. I said to him “I do not ask from idle curiosity, but I have seen that tract before.” He said, “I have never been an habitual drunkard, but three times have been the worse for liquor, and the last time was when I was out on a journey and came home intoxicated; the next day, when I was feeling miserable, I found that tract in my pocket.” He then went on to say that he was not able to go to work that day, and he read and re-read that tract, and after reading it twice he had gone to a neighbour who had before invited him to sign the pledge, and he signed it. It is a very good idea to keep a pledge book in our houses, so as to be useful to our moderate-drinking neighbours. I think if it is introduced kindly they would not take offence, and, more than that, I think that at a time when their hearts are impressed they would come in and sign it. The man also told me that he was bringing up his two boys to be temperance boys. I then said to him, “I put that tract into your pocket, and that is my name in the corner.” He dropped his tract and got hold of my hand, giving it a squeeze that I felt for some time after. He then said I must come and see his wife, for he said, “she has prayed for you every night since I read that tract and signed the pledge.” Without knowing who it was, she had prayed for the person who had put that tract into her husband’s pocket. I do not mention any of these things to show you what I have done for the Lord, for I have done but very little, but what He has done for me, and also because I believe that in speaking thus of what I have done, and seen, and heard, it is more likely to impress you than telling what other people have witnessed and done. I believe every one in this room may do some good in this cause. The first thing to do is, as regards those who have not done it yet, to sign the pledge, and ask the Lord to bless the act, and then endeavour to induce the members of your families to do the same. Some can write a tract that may be a blessing to thousands — such as “The Little Captain” and “The Fool’s Pence” have been. Some may say “I can’t write”; no, but you can distribute, I believe everyone can do something. A friend of mine sat at the table of a lady on which the wine cup stood. The lady’s son was there, and my friend imagined that he sipped it as though he liked it very much, and put the question to her if she was not afraid of her boy becoming intemperate — he seemed to like it so much. The mother was quite offended, though my friend had spoken to her in a Christian spirit. She said, “My A. become a drunkard? Impossible! He knows how to control himself, and when to stop!” When my friend wanted to persuade her to let her boy sign the pledge, the mother would not encourage it, but rather laughed at the idea. It was only eighteen months afterwards that that mother was in an agony of grief beside the coffin of her son, who had died in a fit of delirium tremens. He had been of a very genial disposition, and unhappily, those are the people who fall victims most easily to this vice. My friend went to her to try to comfort her; but oh! dear, it is a hard case in which to give comfort. She was at a loss what to say; the mother almost frantic at one moment, and at another in the most abject grief, amidst floods of tears, said, “Don’t talk to me about comfort when you know that there lies my only son, who has died in delirium tremens. Don’t talk to me of comfort when you know that his mother’s hand gave him the first glass of wine, and his mother’s voice encouraged him to drink when you would have had him abstain.” Then came a fresh burst of grief, “Don’t talk to me of comfort when you know it is written that no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God!” and my friend had to leave her in her anguish and sorrow. God forbid that any dear mother here should have to feel that her hand has given the first glass of wine to her child! There are three young men in the State of Maine who left this country as drunkards, and went there that they might be saved from the constant temptation to drink that assailed them here. They have all of them become reclaimed, and all of them converted. One of them is a very able minister of the Gospel; the second speaks frequently in meetings, and with great approval; and the third is an earnest Christian and sober man. What a blessed thing it would be for this land if all the liquor shops were closed here as they are there! I believe there is something stirring the hearts of the people now, and they only want that we should look to God for direction. From a somewhat enlarged experience, having visited 195,000 sick and wounded soldiers, and seen a great amount of human suffering, I can say that I believe there is nothing so great, so elevating, and so conducive to personal happiness, as endeavouring to cheer and to soothe the afflicted by whom we are surrounded; and indeed there is great truth in the words of one of our American poets:

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel’s happiness shalt know,
Shalt bless the earth, while in the world above
The work begun by thee shall onward flow,
In many a branching stream, and wider grow.
The seed that in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unwearied and unsparing sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers.
And yield thee fruit divine in Heaven’s immortal bowers.

Source: Life and Letters of Elizabeth L. Comstock, Complied by her Sister, C. Hare (London: Headley Brothers, 1895) pp. 120-124; 323-343.