Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 12.
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The shock of seeing her father in the condition we have described — hurt deeply the sensitive nature of Amy Granger. All affection for him, as debased and degraded as he was, had not died in her heart. Memory held too many sweet pictures of the old, dear home which she had lost, and of the tender and loving father who had once been the light and joy of that home. She could never walk the street afterwards, without a nervous fear of again encountering him. From this, she was spared for several months after obtaining the place of an attendant in the rooms of a photographer.
But one morning, just as she was at the entrance of these rooms, she met her father face to face. He had slept in a police station, and had just been sent forth, exhausted from lack of food, and with every nerve unstrung for lack of alcohol, wretched in feeling and loathsome in appearance. The shocked and half-frightened girl glided swiftly past him, and fled trembling up the stairway leading to the gallery in which she was employed, hoping that he had not recognized her. But in this, she was mistaken. Scarcely had she reached the second floor, before she heard him following her up the stairs, shuffling and stumbling along the way. Retreating to the back part of the room, she stood breathless and frightened, until the awfully marred and distorted face of her father looked in upon her from the door. The sight almost broke her heart. But in an instant, all thought of herself was forgotten. The love which had been trampled upon, bruised and broken, and wounded almost to the death — lifted itself into the agony of a new life, and threw out its arms wildly. In this poor dismantled wreck of humanity, storm-beaten, helpless and deserted — she saw the father on whose bosom she had once lain in sweet confidence. All the happy past came back in a moment; pity and tenderness flooded her soul. Starting forward, she laid her hands on him, saying in tones of the deepest compassion: "Oh, father! father!"
Weak, nerveless, and helpless as a sick child, Granger caught hold of his daughter with a half-despairing eagerness, and held on to her as a drowning man to some new and unlooked-for means of support.
"Yes, it's your poor father, Amy," he said, in a deep, rattling voice, scarcely a tone of which she recognized. "All that's left of him."
He shivered; for the morning was cold, and his garments were scant and thin. What could she do or say? Before her bewildered thoughts could untangle themselves, he gave the prompting words.
"I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday, Amy." His voice shaking as he spoke.
The child's pocket-book was in her hand before the sentence was finished. All it contained was a dollar bill. As she took the money out, Granger caught it from her fingers, saying: "Oh, thank you dear! You were always such a good girl."
The little crumpled bit of paper was scarcely in the man's possession, before he turned away and went stumbling down the stairs, his daughter listening in painful suspense, every moment expecting to hear him fall. But he reached the street in safety, and made his way to the nearest bar-room he could find.
When Amy, who had kept all this from her mother, reached the gallery next morning, she found her father already there and awaiting her arrival. His appearance was, if possible,more wretched and disgusting than on the day before! He was sitting near a table on which were a number of fancy photographs, pictures and small card-cases and frames. The sight of him sent the color out of his daughter's face, and the strength out of her limbs.
"Oh, father! father!" she said, speaking in a low voice, as she came up to where he was sitting. "It's hard for me to say it, but you mustn't come here anymore! I shall lose my place if you do."
She saw something like a frightened look in his eyes, as he got up hastily.
"I'll go, then. I'll go right away," he answered, in an abject manner. "But just give me a little something with which to get my breakfast. I haven't had a mouthful since yesterday."
She gave him the trifle of change that was in her pocket-book, which he clutched with the same trembling eagerness he had shown on the day before, and as hurriedly made his way to the street. The only witness of this scene and that of the preceding morning, was an errand boy.
"Is that man your father, Miss Granger?" asked the lad, as Amy turned from the door.
She could not answer him.
"Because, if he is, you'd better not let him come here any more. There'll be trouble for you if he does. I thought it was your father, and so kept mum until I could speak to you."
"What do you mean?" asked Amy, as she turned a scared face on the boy.
"I don't like to tell you, miss. But he stole one of those small morocco cases. I saw him slip it into his pocket."
The poor girl dropped into a chair, as white as a sheet. Everything grew dark about her, and it was only by a strong effort of the will, that she kept from losing her consciousness and falling to the floor.
"You are not well, dear," said Amy's mother, as she looked into the face of her daughter on the morning after Granger's first visit to the photograph gallery.
"My head aches a little," was the evasive answer.
Mrs. Granger was sitting in the room about an hour after Amy left home, when she heard someone come in and ascend the stairs. The footfalls were so light as scarcely to give a sound. She waited, listening; but no one came to her door. Listening still, she perceived a faint rustling of garments as of someone passing up to the rooms above. Then the door of Amy's room was opened and closed almost noiselessly; and all was still again. What did this mean? She had a vague sense of mystery and fear. For several minutes she sat with ear bent, and heart beating heavily.
"Who came in just now, and went upstairs?" she asked of one of her younger daughters who entered the room where she was sitting.
"I heard no one," answered the child.
"Go and see if Amy has come home."
The child did as requested, but came back in a few moments, with a frightened look in her eyes, and said: "Oh, mamma! Amy's lying on her bed; and she won't speak to me."
Mrs. Granger found her daughter as the child had said. Her face was hidden. She looked as if she had fallen across the bed in utter prostration of strength.
"Why, Amy, dear! What's the matter? Are you sick?"
There was no movement or reply.
Mrs. Granger bent over her daughter and tried to lift her face so that she could look into it; but Amy's only response was a slight resistance and continued hiding of her face.
"Amy, my child! Why don't you speak to me? Has anything happened?" The alarmed and anxious mother pressed her questions rapidly; but no reply coming, she drew her arm beneath the head of her daughter and lifted and turned it so that she could look into the hitherto hidden face. It was pale and rigid, with signs of intense suffering about the closely-shut mouth. A long time passed before Mrs. Granger could gather from the unhappy girl, the story of her father's visits to the gallery, and the shame and disgrace which they had brought upon her.
Many days passed before Amy was able to rise out of the deep prostration of mind and body into which she had been thrown, and to turn her thoughts to the work and duty which were still before her. She could not go back to the photograph rooms. That question did not have a moment's debate, either with herself or her mother. It was to get my advice and help in this new and most distressing state of affairs, that Mrs. Granger had called upon me, as mentioned in the preceding chapter. My sympathies were strongly excited, and I assured her that I would do all in my power to assist her daughter in getting another place.
Meanwhile the proprietor of the photograph gallery, who had met Amy on the stairs as she was hurrying away and noticed the pallor and the wild look in her face, had made inquiry of the lad as to the meaning of her disturbed condition. On learning the truth, he became greatly incensed towards Granger — not so much because of the petty theft which had been committed, as on account of the humiliation and suffering which he had brought upon his innocent daughter. Under the heat of his sudden indignation he started out, and by the aid of a policeman, succeeded in finding the miserable man in one of the saloons not far distant. On searching him, the stolen article was discovered on his person. His arrest and commitment by a policeman quickly followed. As no one willing to go bail for him could be found, he was sent to the county prison, where he had been lying for two or three days, when the fact of his imprisonment first became known to me through Mr. Stannard, a gentleman to whom brief reference has already been made.
"Have you heard about poor Granger?" he said, as we met one morning on the street.
"What about him?" I asked.
"He's in prison."
"For what?"
"Theft. He stole some trifle from a photograph gallery, and was arrested and sent to prison."
"Better there, than living a life of drunken vagabondism on the street," I replied.
"I heard through the prison agent, that he was seized with delirium tremens soon after his commitment, and had a hard struggle for his life. But he came through after suffering thetortures of Hell, greatly prostrated in mind and body."
"Poor wretch! It would have been better had he not come through," I made answer, with less of feeling in my voice than was really in my heart. "A curse to himself and to all who, unhappily, have any relationship with him — why should he continue to cumber the ground?"
I spoke more bitterly than I felt, for I had old remembrances of this man which drew upon my sympathies, and softened my heart towards him. There came to me, even as I spoke, a strong and pitiful contrast between what he had been in the days of his proud and honorable manhood — and what he was now, debased, ruined, homeless, sick and in prison.
"God knows best. With Him are the issues of life." Mr. Stannard drew his arm in mine as he spoke. "And now, friend Lyon," he continued, "as, in God's providence, this man and his dreadful condition have been brought so clearly before us — may we not regard the fact as an indication that it is our duty to make another effort to save him? He has reached a lower depth than any to which he had hitherto fallen. May not the awful sense of loss and degradation which he must feel, quicken into life a new and more intense desire to get free from the horrible pit into which appetite has cast him? And may not He who alone is able to save, find now an entrance which has been hitherto closed against Him?"
I was near my office when I met Mr. Stannard. As he drew his arm in mine, we moved onward and were soon at the door.
"Come in. I shall be glad to talk with you about Granger. If there is any hope of saving him, I am ready to do all that lies in my power."
We sat down together and gave his case our most earnest consideration. As for myself, I saw little if anything, to encourage a new effort to rescue this fallen man. I had read and thought a great deal about the evil of drunkenness in the last year or two, and was satisfied that, in cases of what medical men define as confirmed alcoholism — a permanent cure is rarely if ever effected. It was a disease that might be arrested for a time, through the complete removal of exciting causes; but one which, if predisposing causes were once fairly established, could never be radically cured.
"If there were no bar-rooms and no social drinking customs," I said, as we talked, "we might hope to reform a case like this. But one might as well send a man who had just recovered from intermittent fever, back again into the infested region from which he had escaped — as a reformed drunkard into the business and social world of today. There would be small hope of escape for either of them."
Mr. Stannard drew a deep sigh, but did not answer.
I continued: "What makes this case of Granger's so discouraging, is the fact that every possible agency of reform has already been tried. You know that he was in the New York Inebriate Asylum for several months."
"Yes, I am aware of that."
"He came home vastly improved; and I had great hopes of him for awhile. But old associations and old influences set themselves against him from the very day of his return home. It was a continual pressure — a continual allurement. After awhile the old appetite for liquor, which had not been extinguished, began to show signs of life. You know the rest. He was not cured. And, from all I can learn of this disease of drunkenness, no one is ever so thoroughly cured, as not to be in perpetual danger of relapse. We may take Granger out of prison, and set him on his feet again; but will he stand? No, will he not surely fall? If I could only see a reasonable hope. But to my mind, there is none."
"There is always hope in God," said Mr. Stannard, his voice low but steady and assured.
My heart did not give a quick response to his words.
"No man ever falls so low, that Christ cannot lift him up and save him," he added.
"I believe that," was my answer. "But how does He save? How, for instance, can He save a man like Granger? How can His Divine power reach him, and lift him free from the curse of the terrible appetite which has enslaved him? Men look to God, and pray to Him — and yet are not saved. Granger went to church for awhile, and tried to get a higher strength, but it did not come. Why? Did God hold himself away from him, because faith was halting and feeble? Did He make the measure of this poor man's feeble mental effort, the measure of His mercy? I cannot believe it."
"And you must not," Mr. Stannard said, gently, "He knows our frame, and remembers that we are dust. Are not His words explicit, 'Him that comes unto me, I will never cast out.' Running through all the Divine Word, is there not a perpetual invitation to look to Him and come to Him — for refuge, for safety, for strength, and for salvation?"
"But how is a man to come, Mr. Stannard?"
"We begin to come the moment we repent of our sins, and look to the Lord for strength to resist and put them away. We come nearer when we obey His command, 'Cease to do evil.' Then, and only then, do we put it into the Lord's power to save us. 'His name shall be called Jesus — for He shall save His people from their sins.' But if the people will not quit the evil of their doing — then how can He save them from the love of evil doing — which is the true salvation? 'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hears my voice and open the door, I will come in to him.' Now what is it that shuts the door against God? Is it not sin; the love of self and the world; the indulgence of evil passions and appetites? He cannot dwell in a heart, where these abide. They must be cast out, and then God's temple in the human soul is prepared for His entrance."
"But," I said, "who can cast them out, but God? Is not this the doctrine of the church?"
"None but a Divine power," Mr. Stannard answered, "can remove the love of sinning. But first, man of himself must open the door which evil-doing has barred against God."
"How can this be done?"
"There is only one way. He must cease to do evil, because it is a sin against God. Beyond this, he has no power over his corrupt nature. He cannot change his inner vileness into beauty, he cannot make himself pure, he cannot by good deeds enter the kingdom of God. Over the external things of thought and act he has power, but the Lord alone can change his inner affection — take away the heart of stone and give the heart of flesh. But, before this can be done, man must not only repent of his evil deeds because they are sins — but actually cease from doing them. In the moment that he does this from a Christian principle — that is because to do evil is contrary to the Divine Law, and therefore a sin against God — and looks to the Lord to deliver and save him, in that moment he opens the door of his heart for the Lord to enter, and the Lord, who has been knocking there by His Divine Word and commandments, will surely come in. And so long as he shuns evils as sins in the external of his life, is just, and merciful, and humble — God will abide with him and in him, and he shall walk as safely in the midst of temptation, as the three Hebrew children in the fiery furnace, because the Son of God is with him, as He was with them."
"Not of faith alone, nor of works, nor of merit," I said.
"No, but of obedience. And in the degree that obedience becomes perfected, will love become perfected. In the degree that a man shuns in thought and act, the evils which in any way hurt his neighbor or do dishonor to God — in that degree will the Lord remove from his heart the desire to do them, and give the affection of good in their place."
"Going back now to Mr. Granger," I said," why, when he put away the evil of drinking for so long a time, was not the desire for this sinful indulgence taken away? Did he not open the door for the Lord to come in?"
"We open the door at which the Lord stands knocking, when we see and acknowledge the evils in our lives that hold the door bolted and barred against Him, and cease to do them because they are sins."
"Because they are sins?"
"Yes. If we cease to do evil from any other consideration, we do not open the door."
"I am not sure that I get your meaning," said I.
"Take the case of Granger. Why did he shun the evil of drinking?"
"Because he saw that it was ruining him."
"That it was a sin against himself, rather than against God," said Mr. Stannard.
"What is sin against God?" I asked.
"Any and everything that man does in opposition to Divine order."
"The answer is too general," I said.
"The laws of this order as applied to man are very simple and direct," he returned. "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself. Now, in Mr. Granger's case, did he make an effort to control his appetite for drink, because its indulgence was a sin against the true order of his life, and turned him away from all just regard for God and his neighbor — thus a sin against God Himself — or, did his thought reach only to himself and to his worldly loss or gain?"
"I scarcely think his motive went as far as you suggest."
"If it did not, how was God to save him? If it was not the sin of alcoholism which troubled him, but only the consequences of that sin, there could be no true repentance and humiliation before God. And here let me say, Mr. Lyon, that no man can be saved from any particular evil, as, for instance, that of drunkenness, unless at the same time he resists and endeavors to put away all other sins against God. The whole man must be reformed and regenerated. Everything forbidden in the Word of God, must be put away through the Divine strength given to all who earnestly try to keep the commandments."
"I see your meaning more clearly," I replied. "There must be a new and better life in the whole man."
"If not, how can God abide with him and in him?"
"Coming back again to the case of Granger," said I, "and regarding it from your standpoint — is there any possibility of a permanent reform?"
"Yes."
"You speak confidently."
"Because I have faith in the Great Physician of souls. There is a Divine healing power which all men may have if they will."
"Nothing but a Divine power can cure him. Of that I am satisfied."
"Shall we not, then, seeing that he has been brought so low, make an effort to bring him under the care of this Great Physician? I have been thinking about it all day, and our conversation has only given strength to a half-formed purpose to visit and make one more effort to save him."
"Let it be done by all means," I replied.
A gentleman who had known Mr. Granger came into my office at this moment, and when he learned of the utter debasement of the man, and of our purpose to make a new effort to reclaim him, said: "Why not place him in the new Reformatory Home recently established in our city?"
"Reformation without regeneration — will avail nothing in his case," returned Mr. Stannard. "The best reformatory agencies known have been tried, but their influences proved only temporary. He was at Binghampton, you know."
"Yes, I am aware of that. But the institution to which I refer, is not an asylum for the treatment of drunkenness as a disease — but a Christian Home in which, while all the physical needs of the inhabitants are rightly cared for, an effort is made to bring them under Christian influences, and to lead them to depend on God for safety."
"Is there an institution like that in our city?" asked Mr. Stannard, with much interest in his manner. "I never heard of it before."
"It is scarcely a year old," was replied. "But already the results obtained are quite remarkable."
"Too short a time to predict much on results," I said. "The reformation of a drunkard that dates back no farther than a year, gives little ground for confidence."
"Much depends on the basis of the reformation," remarked Mr. Stannard. "Here, it strikes me, is the true basis, and I am ready to hope much. But what is the name of this institution and where is it located?"
"You will find it in the very center of our city. They call it the Franklin Reformatory Home for Inebriates; and from what I have heard through one of the managers, whose heart is very much in the work, I am led to believe that in its treatment of drunkenness, it has discovered and is using the only true remedy for that terrible disease which no medicine for the body can ever radically cure. Its first work is to draw the poor, debased and degraded inebriate within the circle of a well-ordered and cheerful home, and under the influence of kind and sympathetic friends. All these have been lost to him for years; so utterly lost that all hope of their recovery has died in his heart. He is a stranger to gentle words and loving smiles. He is used to only rebuke and blame; to scorn and contempt; is alike despised by himself and the world. But here he finds himself all at once an object of interest and care. His hand is taken in a clasp so warm and true, that he feels the thrill go down into his heart and awaken old memories of other and dearer hand-clasps. His lost manhoodand sense of respect are found again. New purposes are formed and old resolves — broken, alas! so many times — renewed once more. He finds himself encircled by sustaining influences of a better character than he has known in many years. Hope and confidence grow strong.
"But in lifting the fallen man to this state of life, the Home has done only its first and least important work of reformation. If it were able to do no more, 'Failure' would ultimately be written on its walls. It is organized for deeper and more thorough work — is, in fact, a Church as well as a Home, and has its chapel and its formal worship. When the man is restored and in his right mind, an effort is made to lead him into the conviction that in and of himself — he cannot successfully resist the appetite from whose slavery he has just escaped. That only in the Divine power and protection, is there any hope for him, and that he must seek this Divine power and protection, through prayer and a living and obedient faith in Christ, who saves to the uttermost, all who come to Him and keep His sayings. He must become a new man. Must be saved not only from drunkenness, but from all other evils of life. Must become sincere, and humble, and just, and pure — as well as temperate. So becoming steadfast and immovable."
A light had kindled in Mr. Stannard's face. Turning to me, he said: "There is hope for our poor friend. He may yet be saved. Is there not a providence in this thing?"
"I might say yes, if I believed in special providences," I returned.
"What kind of a providence do you believe in?" Mr. Stannard asked.
"In a general overruling providence," I replied.
"Of a providence, for instance, which takes care of a man's whole body — but not of his eye, or ear, or heart, or any individual fibre, or nerve, or organ of which his body is composed. Of a providence which takes care of a nation, but not of the individual men composing that nation. To have a general providence, Mr. Lyon, you must have aparticular providence; for without particulars, you cannot have that which is general. Believe me, that God's care is over you and me and every one, specially and at all times. It would be no providence at all, if this were not so. Let us think of it as around about us continually, and that if it were intermitted for a single moment, we would perish. Let us think of it as the infinite Love which is forever seeking to save us, and forever adapting the means to this eternal end."
"You think more deeply about these things than I have been in the habit of doing, and may be nearer right in your views — than I am in mine. I waive, for the present, all controversy on the subject. As for Mr. Granger, let us get him into this Home, and give him another chance. I believe in the church, and in the power of God to save men from their sins. And I believe more in this Home, from what I have just heard of it, than in any and all of the reformatory agencies in the land."
"Because it is a church, a true church, seeking to gather poor lost and abandoned ones into the fold of Christ?"
"Yes, if you choose to give that form to the proposition," I replied.
"Is it not the true form? Can the Church have any higher mission, than the one to which this Home has consecrated itself?"
"None," was my answer. "And yet the Church scarcely reaches out its hand to the perishing inebriate. Nay, draws back from him her spotless garments, and leaves him to perish in the mire — from which her hands might have raised him."
"The Church learns but slowly," Mr. Stannard replied, speaking with a shade of depression in his voice. "It has been too busy with creeds and hairsplitting differences in doctrine, and with rituals, and robes, and things external — to give itself as it should to charity. A better day is not far distant, I hope. If, as has been said, the Church is the heart and lungs of common society, and if society is terribly diseased, spiritually as well as morally — is not the Church at fault and responsible? A healthy heart and healthy lungs — should make a healthy body. Before the Church can heal the world — she must be healed herself. She must rise into the perception of higher and diviner truths, and come down into the world with a more living power.
"It is difficult to tell which has the larger influence over the other today, the Church or the world. I sometimes fear it is the world, the Church is so pervaded with its attitudes, and fashions, and ways of doing things, with its pride and its vanities. But here, in this Home of which we have been speaking, we have, thank God, the beginning of a real, earnest, working Church that knows the gospel of salvation, and is seeking by its power to lift up the fallen, to heal the broken-hearted, and to set the captive free."
Mr. Stannard had warmed as he spoke, and now there was a glow on his fine countenance. So interested had we all become in the Home about which we were talking, that his suggestion that we should make a visit and learn for ourselves what was being done there, met with a hearty concurrence — and we started at once to see and make ourselves better acquainted with the character and work of the new Institution.
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