Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 18.
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The work of "Gospel Temperance," as some began to call this latest effort to weaken and destroy the monster evil which had so long cursed the land, had a steady growth. Pious women in all the churches began to take part in it, and to strengthen its effective agencies. Prayer was incessant, and trusted in with implicit confidence. There was a literal acceptance of the promise, "That if two of you shall agree upon earth as concerning anything that they shall ask — it shall be done for them of my Father who is in Heaven." They believed in the faith that removes mountains; and in the Word of Him who said, "Ask and you shall receive; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you." And when they met in His name, they had an assurance that He was in the midst of them. They were consecrating themselves to the work of saving lost souls. Souls so far out of the reach of common Gospel influences, that even the churches had practically ceased to regard them as within the pale of salvation, and knew that God's power to save could be given them in the largest measure; for were not these souls, so fearfully imperiled, as precious to Him as the souls of any in His whole universe?
Never had the poor, degraded, suffering drunkard met, since his sad debasement, with such influences as came to him now. "My brother" fell on his ears in a voice so tender and compassionate, that feelings, which had lain dormant for years, stirred in his heart once more. A hand was laid on him so gently and kindly, that it seemed like the hand of a sister, or a wife, or a mother, felt in the long ago. And when prayer was offered for him, and he felt himself borne up to the throne of grace on the sweet, and tender, and pleading voices of gentle women — he broke all down, and under the suddenly-kindled hope of being rescued from his sin and misery — he lifted his poor, broken spirit to God and prayed for help, and mercy, and forgiveness.
Differ as we may about the philosophy of prayer, and the true sources of its power, of one thing we may be sure, that the ear of God is open to the cry of every sin-sick soul, if it is made in sincerity and in truth. As to the answer, that will depend on the measure of the willingness to receive. God's love and the bountifulness are infinite. The cry of the lips will bring nothing; the cry of the heart will bring everything it is capable of receiving; and its capacity will always be equal to the displacement of evil in the life, because such evil is contrary to God's will and Word, and obstructs His inflowing love. The growth in grace, from the first moment the soul turns to God in prayer, and makes its first sincere effort to lead a new spiritual life — will be in an exact ratio to its resistance and conquest of evil on the plane of its natural life in the world and among men.
Prayer, in the hands of these women — wrought marvels. Men who had been drunkards for years, stopped suddenly, professed faith in Christ, joined the church, and became once more good and useful citizens. So quietly was all this done, in the second stage of this Gospel temperance work, that the general public heard little about it, and knew less. But the seed was being broadcast, and in due time the promise of an ampler harvest than had yet been seen was apparent on every side. Many men who had become reformed through the ministry of prayer — threw themselves into the work of rescuing the fallen — going from town to town, and by their eloquent appeals, stirring the hearts of the people, and arousing them to a sense of their duty and their danger.
And now, one after another, the slumbering churches began to awake and to recognize the hand of God in this work, and to give it countenance and approval, if not the practical support it yet so largely needed. But the work itself went on chiefly outside of the churches, though in the hands of the most active and earnest Christian men and women connected with the churches; for it was nearer to humanity than to sectarian conservatism, and drew to its aid those who had in them the larger measure of that Christianity which stoops, as Christ stoops, to the lowest and the vilest, if in so doing, he may save them.
"I do not understand this strange indifference of the churches," said I, to Granger, one day. "In temperance work, they are doing little or nothing; and they might be doing so much."
"There are signs of better things," he replied. "Let us be patient for awhile. The time is not far off, I trust, when every society that calls itself a church, will have its special praying and working band of women, and an open door for the lowest and the vilest to come in; when the heathen who are perishing in the very shadow of its porches, will take precedence of the heathen afar off. We have cheering intelligence from all sides. Almost every day we hear of new workers coming into the field, and of successes everywhere. In some places, from one-third to two-thirds of the whole population have signed the pledge, to the joy of good citizens and the consternation of liquor-dealers."
"If we could have anything like that in our poor, rum-cursed city!" I replied. "But hope is vain. In smaller communities, where each is known to all, and a chain of interest and personal influence holds the people in nearer contact, a common sentiment or impulse may bear them in a single direction. But it is not so here. Set any force you please in motion, and its impression can only be partial."
"We hope for a widely different result," Granger made answer. "Next week a man whose power with the people is almost a marvel and a mystery, will come from the West to our city; and then an effort will be made, through daily and nightly religious meetings, to get up such a temperance revival as has never been seen or heard of in the land."
I smiled at his ardor. He had become almost an enthusiast on the subject of temperance.
"We shall see," was my doubting response.
And we did see. The man came — this new apostle of temperance. He was not learned — but had largely the gift of persuasion. He was not so eloquent — as ready of speech; not so logical — as impassioned. He moved his audiences not so much by the clearness of a well-considered argument — as by the force of fact and incident. He was easy of manner, and at home with the people; recognizing in the lowliest and most wretched, a brother, and telling the poor drunkard, whose hand he held so tightly, that he knew all about the pit in which his feet were mired, and all about the way of deliverance. "As God saved me, my brother — He will save you," was ever spoken with that sympathy and assurance which gives speech a passage to the heart. From the very commencement of his work, Francis Murphy exercised an influence that to some appeared half-miraculous.
(Editor's note — from Wikipedia. Francis Murphy, 1836–1907, was an American temperance evangelist, born in Ireland. Beginning in 1870 at Portsmouth, N. H., he started temperance reform clubs throughout that state, and was their first president. His headquarters were in Pittsburgh, Pa., and after his first address there in 1876, 65,000 people signed the pledge he wrote: "With malice toward none, with charity for all, I hereby pledge my sacred honor that, God helping me, I will abstain from the use of all intoxicating liquors as a beverage, and that I will encourage others to abstain." During the course of his temperance labors in America and abroad, Murphy is said to have induced 16 million to sign the pledge. Source: The New York Times, July 1, 1907, page 7.)
The halls in which his meetings in our city were held, were crowded night after night to overflowing, hundreds being unable to gain access. In the conduct of these meetings, there were no particularly remarkable features. They were opened with the reading of Scripture and prayer, followed by singing. Then there would be addresses from clergymen and others, including Mr. Murphy; and speeches and testimonies from reformed men — the whole interspersed with the singing of temperance and revival hymns. During the progress of the meetings, and at their close, invitations to come and sign the pledge were given and responded to, very many coming forward each night and taking the pledge of total abstinence; the number soon increasing from hundreds to thousands. Men would enter the hall so badly intoxicated, that they could scarcely walk straight, and before leaving sign their names to a pledge, and in many cases keep it. It was not with poor, degraded wretches alone — the outcast and the abandoned — that these meetings had power. Men of standing and education, who were beginning to feel the strength of an appetite that too surely betrays to ruin; lawyers, merchants, physicians; the representatives of all conditions and classes — alike felt the warning or the persuasion that came to them, and alike took heed.
"Will it last?" was my question after the weeks had begun gathering into months.
"My good friend lives too close to Doubting Castle." returned Granger, to whom I had addressed the inquiry. He was already deeply absorbed in the exciting movement.
"Perhaps. But we hear of things being too good to last, you know."
"Things may be too bad to last; but never too good. It is only the good which is really substantial," he returned, smiling.
"The good will last, of course. But how much is really genuine in all this, and how much temporary? Of the scores who nightly sign the pledge, and are pointed to God as the One who alone can give them strength to keep it — how many do you think will stand?"
"God only knows," he replied, a little soberly, and with, I thought, a slight disturbance in his manner.
"A suddenly inspired good resolution; a cry to God for help; the impression of an inner change which may be nothing more than a feeling; the signing of a pledge — all the work of a minute, it may be; are these to be relied upon with any well-grounded assurance?" I said. "The man is here tonight in the sphere of an excitement which moves him deeply. He sees, as he has not seen for a long time, his sin and wretchedness; the pain and loss to himself, and the wrongs and sufferings of those who love him or are dependent on him. And he sees, too, a way of escape, and hands reached out with a promise of help. He signs the pledge, and tries to look up and pray. Hopeful words are spoken in his ears. He is pointed, in a few words, to Christ as his Savior. And then he goes out alone, hungry, it may be, and homeless — to sleep in the street or station-house. What hope for him, with his exhausted nerves and gnawing thirst? He needs more than pledge or prayer; he needs good food, shelter and protection; and, until he can stand alone, a hand to hold him up; and if these are not given, it were about as well to let him alone."
As I spoke, I saw the shadows that were falling over Granger's face grow deeper.
"We have not forgotten this," he replied. "We have a relief committee, and are doing what we can. Every Sunday morning, a breakfast is provided. Clothing, as far as we are able to procure it, is distributed, employment obtained, and all the protection in our power to throw about the men who are trying to reform. But the work is taking on dimensions so far beyond what we had anticipated, that we find ourselves without sufficient means for its thorough prosecution. We give our time, our efforts and our money; but we who are active in this movement are few compared with the thousands who stand looking on, wondering, approving, doubting or criticizing. 'What is a Sunday-morning breakfast?' said a gentleman only today. 'Can a man live on a single meal a week?' But when I asked him to give us money, that we might minister more largely, his answer was that he knew where better to dispense his charity. Perhaps he did, and I shall not judge him. 'It isn't so much praying, as food and clothing and employment which are needed,' said another. 'If there were less talking and praying, and more good, solid doing for these poor wretches — the chances in their favor would be increased ten to one.' And yet I could not so interest him in their behalf as to get from him either personal or material aid."
There was an undertone of trouble in Granger's voice, which fell to a heavy sigh in the closing words of his last sentence.
"From four to five hundred destitute men seeking aid," he resumed, "and our resources utterly inadequate to the demands that are made upon us — hungry, half-clothed, and in too many cases, homeless men. We may arrest their feet by Gospel means; but if we would turn their steps into the ways of sobriety and hold them there — we must meet and care for them on a lower plane. If we would lift them into spiritual safety — we must get the foundations of natural life secure. An empty stomach, and soiled and ragged and scanty clothing, with idleness superadded, are not, I agree with you, favorable to the growth of true piety. The struggle with this dreadful appetite is hard enough under the most favorable conditions; and, therefore, our work must be regarded as only initiated when, by force of these new spiritual influences, we have been able to draw the unhappy victims of alcoholism over from the enemy's ground."
As we talked a man entered — I was sitting in Mr. Granger's office — and came forward in a hesitating, half-embarrassed manner. His clothing was poor and soiled, his person unsightly, and his face that of an exhausted inebriate. He stopped when a few steps from us, and said: "You do not know me."
We both recognized him by his voice. He had been a conveyancer, and a man with some property; but intemperate habits had done for him what they too surely accomplish for nearly all who indulge them.
"Yes, I know you, Hartley," Granger answered, quickly, rising as he spoke, and grasping the man's hand. He held it for some moments, looking intently into his face. "Didn't I see you at the meeting in Broad Street, last night?" he asked, while still holding his hand.
"Yes, I was there."
"And you signed the pledge?"
"Yes, sir. After I heard you speak, I said, if God can save Granger — He can save me, and I'm going to try this new way."
"God can and will save you, my friend," was Granger's warm response. "Sit down and let us talk about it."
He drew Hartley into a chair, and sat down in front of him.
"Now, tell me all about yourself." There was a genuine interest in his voice; and its effect upon this poor wreck of a man, was to send a glow to his face, and cause his dull eyes to kindle. "How is it with you; and what the chances are for getting on your feet again. Tell me all about it. You signed the pledge last night?"
"Yes, I signed at the meeting in Broad Street. And you were standing just in front of me, and looking at me; and I heard you say, 'Trust in God, my brother. Look to Him, andpray to Him — and He will give you strength to keep this pledge.' You said it to me; but I saw that you didn't know me. I wanted to speak to you, and to tell you who I was; and I was pressing forward, when someone drew you away, and then I couldn't get near you again. I waited at the door until you came out; but you were talking with a gentleman, and while I hesitated about interrupting you, you passed down the street, and I was left standing alone."
"Where did you go after that?" asked Granger.
"I had nowhere to go. In this whole city, there was no place that I could call my home — no house in which I could claim the right to lay my head. My wife died three years ago; and my only child is with my mother, who lives in a neighboring town. I am alone and friendless."
"No, not friendless," said Granger, his voice struggling with his feelings. "There is One who sticks closer than a brother. He is your friend."
The poor man looked down at his wretched garments in a way that it was not hard to understand. His face did not brighten perceptibly under this last assurance.
"Where did you sleep last night?" I inquired.
"I would have gone to one of the police-stations, but was afraid of being sent to the House of Correction. You see I had taken the pledge, and in this new way, and I was going to try to keep it, if God would indeed help me, as it kept coming to me that He would. So I walked out to Fairmount, and as the night was dark, I found it easy to hide away in a place where the police wouldn't find me, and there I slept till morning. I got some breakfast, and have been trying ever since to find something to do. But it's no use. I'm not a fit object to be in anybody's place of business."
And again he cast down a dreary look at his unsightly clothing.
"Of course you are not," said Mr. Granger. "I'm sorry you didn't speak to me last night. And now, if you are in real earnest, Mr. Hartley, we'll see if something can't be done for you."
"God knows that I'm in earnest, sir," he said, with a sudden trembling eagerness. "I lay awake so long last night, thinking over my whole life, and many times asking God to help me to live a better one in future. But I'm down so low, that it seems as if there was no way for me to get up all by myself. I'm like a man in the sea who will drown unless somebody throws him a rope."
"You shall have the rope." Granger spoke in no uncertain voice.
It was plain from Hartley's exhausted and nervous state, that he was in no condition to enter at once upon any employment. He needed rest, quiet and protection; with healthy mental surroundings, and a sufficient quantity of nutritious food. We knew of but one place in the city where these could be secured; and there we took him.
Two weeks in the Franklin Home, and you would not have known the man. Even before the lapse of that time, he had found employment in the office of a conveyancer who had been with him as a boy, and who now felt a deep interest in the welfare of his old preceptor.
"I have had one of the sweetest passages of my life," said Granger, whom I met a few weeks afterwards. "I was in Chester the day before yesterday, where I went to make an address at one of the meetings now being held in that town. In the audience, and sitting close to the platform, I noticed an old lady, and a young girl about sixteen years of age, both plainly dressed, but with something in their faces that caused my eyes to turn towards them frequently. There was a look of subdued and patient trouble in the face of the elder; and a grave quiet in that of the younger. While I spoke, their eyes did not seem to be off of me for a moment. During my address I mentioned Hartley's case, referring to him with some particularity. As I progressed, I noticed that the old lady began to lean forward with an air of deep interest, if not eager expectancy; and I imagined that the girl by her side was turning pale. All at once, it flashed on me that these might be the mother and daughter of the man whose rescue I was describing, and the impression was so strong, that I held back the name of Hartley as it was coming to my lips, and closed my relation of the case with the words: 'Another soul saved through the power of that Divine strength which is freely given to all who will receive it.'
"At the close of the meeting I saw that the two women were lingering in their seats while the audience slowly retired; and that their eyes were turned towards the platform where I remained talking with some members of the committee which had the meetings in charge. They were almost alone when I came down and commenced moving along the aisle. 'May I speak a word with you?' said the elder of the two ladies, laying her hand at the same time on my arm. I saw a quiver in her face. 'What is your name?' I asked. 'Mrs. Hartley,' she replied, softly, and as if half afraid to utter her own name. Then I knew it all, and my heart gave a sudden bound of gladness. Dear old mother. I felt like putting my arm about her and crying out: 'This your son who was dead, is alive again!' But I kept a guard on my lips, not knowing how the good news, if broken too suddenly, might affect her; and taking her hand, said: 'I am glad to meet you, Mrs. Hartley.' 'I would like to ask you a question, sir,' she said, beginning now to show considerable agitation. 'First,' I replied, 'let me ask you one. Have you a son named Lloyd Hartley?'
"Her startled face became as white as ashes; and she caught hold of me with a tight grasp of the hand. 'Thank God for his deliverance,' I said, softly. Her slender form sank down upon the seat by which she was standing, and her head drooped over her bosom. She was very still, and I knew that her heart was lifting itself in thankfulness to God. 'In the strength of Him who conquered death and Hell, your son shall stand now as a rock,' said I, bending to her ear. 'He is trusting no more in his own weakness, but in the power of the Infinite and the Almighty. I know what that dependence means; and because of this knowledge, I have hope for your son.' 'Blessed be the name of the Lord!' came in a low, tender out-breathing of gladness from her lips. Her head was still bowed and her face hidden. Then, as she reached up one of her hands, she whispered: 'Darling, where are you?' and in a moment after her arm was about the neck of her granddaughter; and the two clung together, weeping silently. And all was so quiet and unobtrusive, that the people passed out scarcely noticing anything unusual until we were left almost alone.
"'I have been praying for him night and day ever since the temperance revival began,' said the happy mother, as I sat with her that evening in her home, replying to her questions, and giving her all the assurances in my power. 'And God has answered my prayers. And when He saves, it is no half work — but a true salvation. I have no hope in anything else. My son has taken pledge after pledge; has made and tried to keep good resolutions over and over again; but only to fall, and each time to a lower and a lower depth. If he had put his trust in God, if he had prayed for grace and strength, and entered, as you tell me he is now doing, upon a Christian life — it would have been far different. It is the Christian life that saves; and it saves from drunkenness as well as from every other sin; for all sin must be removed, before there can be a dwelling-place for Christ in the soul.'
"I have felt happier and stronger ever since," Granger continued. "It was really touching to see this mother's confidence. She had been praying and weeping before God night and day for weeks — pleading for this son that he might be turned from the evil of his ways. She did not even know where he was; but she knew that her Lord and Master knew. And now, when, as she believed, her prayers had been answered in his conversion, she rejoiced and was confident. The Everlasting Arms were about him, and he would dwell secure."
"Happy faith!" I made answer. "May its foundations never be removed."
"I think they never will," Granger said. "If her prayers did not avail just in the order of her belief, they still availed, and her son has been brought within the fold; and there is, in the spirit he manifests, something which gives me confidence in his stability."
"Have you told Hartley about this meeting with his mother and daughter?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. And they have been up to the city to see him."
"A happy re-union."
"You would have said so, if you had seen them together. Dear old lady! The love, and tenderness, and joy which were in her face as she sat and looked at her son, to whom much of the old true manliness of expression and bearing has already commenced coming back, was beautiful and touching to witness. It will not be a long time, I think, before there will be one home for them all, and that a happy one."
And it was not long.
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