Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 9.
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I was not successful in my search for Mr. Granger, though I visited many of the principal saloons, and met with several people who knew him; but no one whom I questioned had seen him during the night. It was nearly twelve o'clock when I gave up the search. I was debating with myself whether to return to my own residence or to go, even at this late hour, and ascertain whether he were at home or not, when, on passing a small court in which a tavern was located, a sudden sound of angry voices struck my ears. As I paused I saw a man thrust out of this tavern with violence. He fell with a dull, heavy sound on the pavement; and was kicked as he fell. The door shut in an instant afterwards, and the man was left to all appearance, unconscious or dead.
I found a policeman in the next block, and after giving information as to what I had seen, was turning to leave him, when he detained me, saying that if the man had received any serious injuries I might be needed as a witness. I took out a card, and writing my address on it, asked if that were sufficient. He said yes. I had gone from him for only a few paces when the possibility that the man I had seen might be Granger, flashed through my mind, arresting my steps, and causing me to turn about and hurry back to the scene of the outrage of which I had been a spectator. The policeman was trying to raise the man from the ground; but the latter was either so stupified by drink, or so stunned by his fall on the pavement, as to be unconscious of any effort to arouse him. What was my pain and horror to see, as the face was turned to the light, the features of Alexander Granger. There was a great bruise on one of his temples from which drops of blood were creeping out; and his mouth was swollen as from a blow, and bleeding.
By this time, two or three men had come out of the saloon; and I noticed that one of them, on seeing the policeman, dropped quietly from the court and disappeared around the corner. The others assisted to bear the unconscious man into the tavern. It was a base, vile place; and the keeper a vicious-looking fellow, in whose eyes you saw the cruel instincts of a wild beast. He it was, as we learned, who had thrust Granger out; but he denied having kicked him as he fell. The cause for this violence was a drunken dispute. An argument about something had arisen, and the brutal force of the bully had been used against the lawyer, who was too much under the power of drink for prudent self-restraint. His words had been answered by blows; and the blows had been very hard.
A physician was sent for, but before his arrival, Granger had partially regained his consciousness. An examination of the wound on his head showed nothing very serious. His mouth, however, had become dreadfully swollen; and the upper lip exhibited so bad a cut that it had to be closed with a few stitches and bands of adhesive plaster.
"There's a very sharp pain just here, doctor," said Granger, after the lip had been dressed, placing his hand to his side as he spoke. "I wish you'd see what it means. There's something wrong, I'm afraid."
"Wrong! I would think there was," replied the doctor, as soon as he had made an examination. "There's a rib broken!"
A groan escaped the lips of the suffering man. Increasing pain was lifting him out of his drunken stupor.
"He had better be taken home at once," said the doctor. "I cannot attempt to set the broken bone here."
"Oh, no. Don't take me home!" Granger answered, quickly. "The station-house. Anywhere. But not home." His countenance was strongly agitated.
"To my house, then," I said.
"No! no! no! It's considerate of you, Mr. Lyon, but I will not be taken into any gentleman's house while in this condition. Why can't the bone be set here?"
"For reasons I will not attempt to explain," said the doctor, speaking with decision. "I think, sir," addressing me, "that you had better order a carriage and have him removed to his own house. I will accompany you, or you can send for his family physician. In any case, take him home. The fracture is, I fear, a bad one, and will require careful treatment."
Another groan came from Granger's lips. "If I were only dead!" he ejaculated.
A carriage was sent for. While waiting for it to come, Granger sat with closed eyes; his face now almost deathly pale, and with beads of sweat standing all over it. He made no resistance when the carriage arrived, and entered it in silence, accompanied by the doctor, a policeman and myself.
We were some ten or twelve blocks from his residence, and it took over twenty minutes to make the distance, as the driving had to be very slow. When we had come within a few hundred yards of his dwelling, he asked to have the carriage stopped for a few minutes until I could go and break the news.
Leaving the carriage, I went rapidly in the direction of his house. A light was burning in one of the upper windows. What should I say? How should I break this news to his poor, waiting wife? As I drew near, I noticed a shadow on the wall of the chamber in which the light was burning; a moving shadow as of one restlessly walking the floor. As the sound of my hurrying feet broke the silence, I saw the shadow grow still for a moment, and then quickly disappear. I had scarcely rung the bell before the door was drawn swiftly open, and Mrs. Granger's pale, almost rigid face met mine.
"Mr. Granger! What of him? Oh! Mr. Lyon, have you found him?" She had caught hold of me in her eagerness and suspense.
"Yes, yes. I have found him," I replied.
"But where is he? Why didn't he come home with you?"
"He is coming. He will be here in a little while," I said, trying to speak in a voice that would allay her excitement.
"In a little while! What's the matter, Mr. Lyon? Don't deceive me! Don't keep anything back! Am I needed?"
I felt her hand close on my arm with a tight grip.
"No — no, Mrs. Granger. You are frightened for nothing. Your husband will be home in a few minutes. I came first to tell you and relieve your mind."
At this moment the sound of approaching wheels was heard.
"Is that Mr. Granger?" she asked, her face as white as ashes. "Yes," I replied.
I saw that the whole truth had not occurred to her. She stood still, waiting until the slow-moving carriage was at the door, and not stirring until she saw the policeman step first to the pavement. Then there was a startle and a repressed cry. Next came the doctor, and then, with the help of the policeman. Granger was assisted from the carriage. It was too dark for his wife to see his face until the light of the entry-lamp fell upon it as he was supported up the steps to the door.
She did not faint, nor cry out in wild terror as she saw that bruised, pain-stricken face; but, as if she had received a blow — staggered back a step or two. She quickly recovered herself, coming forward and saying, breathlessly, and in a hoarse whisper: "What is it? What's the matter?"
"Nothing very serious," the doctor answered. "Your husband has had a fall, and there's a rib broken. But he'll be all right in a short time. We must get him up to his own room with as little delay as possible."
In a moment all signs of agitation disappeared.
"This way," said the wife, calmly, moving back along the hall, and then going lightly upstairs and leading the way to the chamber in front. How tender and pitiful she was in every word and act; yet with no sign of weakness. Love and duty had lifted her into a sphere of calm self-possession.
I wondered as I observed her that night, moving about with a quiet, almost cheerful bearing, acting in concert with the doctor, ministering to her husband, giving and taking directions with the coolness and self-poise of an experienced nurse, what it meant? I had expected a painful scene, with outbursts of uncontrollable mental anguish; and my surprise was, therefore, the greater at what I saw.
It was between two and three o'clock before I left Mr. Granger. By this time, the broken bone had been properly set, and he was not only free from pain but sleeping quietly.
I did not see him for several days, though I made frequent inquiries, and learned that he was doing well. A brief notice of the assault from which he had suffered found its way into the newspapers, but his name was not mentioned. No effort was made to arrest and punish his assailant, for that would have been to make his own disgrace public.
It was nearly a week afterwards that I received a note, asking me to call upon him. He was greatly changed, and looked broken, subdued and troubled. His lip was still considerably swollen and very sore. The wound had not healed readily, and the probabilities were that a disfiguring scar would be left. He held my hand tightly for some moments before speaking.
"I want to have another talk with you, Lyon," he said, his voice trembling a little. "I shall be out again soon, and then — " He stopped, with a strong movement of feeling in his face. "And then? God help me, Lyon! Is there no hope — no escape — no way of safety?"
His agitation increased. I did not reply. What could I say? He saw the doubt in my face.
"There must be help somewhere. Men are saved from this curse."
"A man may be saved from any evil — if he will," I replied. "But if he will not, as I have said to you many times, even God cannot save him. If you had kept away from the enemy's ground, he could never have enslaved you again. You were free to pass over — or to remain within the lines of safety. Of your own will, you passed over."
"Poor, weak fool!" he murmured, bitterly. "Poor, silly moth, flying into the candle!"
"Let the days of weakness and folly pass forever. Let there be no more parleyings with the enemy — no more venturing upon his domain."
He shook his head gloomily.
"Of what value are all my good resolutions? Will they save me in the future, any more than they have saved me in the past? Are they stronger today than they were last year or the year before? There must be something more, Mr. Lyon. Something stronger to lean on, or I am lost!"
"Lean on God," I answered. "Look to Him."
There was no brightening of his face.
"God helps those who try to get free from the sin which so easily beset them."
"Does He? Haven't I tried? Doesn't He know that I have tried? But where is the help?"
"It cannot come to you except in your reasserted manhood; and it will come if you stand fast in that manhood. God's strength will be your strength."
He sighed heavily.
"Mr. Gross was here yesterday, and I had a long talk with him about the New York Asylum at Binghampton. He thinks very favorably of the course pursued there, and spoke of several cases where patients have come home radically cured. He promised to send me the last report of the superintendent. If I thought any good would come of it, I'd drop business and everything else and go under treatment there."
I said nothing to discourage the idea. There might be influences brought to bear upon him at this institution, which would help to give him the mastery over himself. I could not tell.
At a subsequent visit, I found that the promised report had come into his hands, and that his mind was fully made up to leave for Binghampton as soon as he was able to travel, and spend as long a time there as the resident physician and superintendent thought his case required.
"Alcoholism is a disease," he said, as we talked the matter over; "and as clearly defined as any other disease; and, moreover, as subject to remedial agencies. The best minds in the medical profession have given to this disease, a most careful study, and it is known what organs are affected by it, and the exact character of the disease. Its treatment is based on true scientific and pathological principles, and so conducted as to give the patient a just knowledge of the means whereby he may retain his health after a cure has been made. He is not left to grope in the dark, every moment in danger of falling over some unseen stumbling-block which may have been cast in his way."
I did not share in the new hope which had come to Mr. Granger, but was careful not to offer a word of discouragement. There might, as I have said, be influences brought to bear upon him at the asylum which would prove lasting. It was worth the trial at least.
And the trial was made. Four months were spent by Mr. Granger at the institution in Binghampton, where the treatment for alcoholism as a disease, was at the time up to the highest skill and intelligence of the medical profession. The treatment was moral as well as medical. The first thing gained for the patient was his removal from the tainted atmosphere of common society, in which are perpetually floating the germs of the disease from which he was suffering. This was a most important gain, for it took him out of the region of exciting causes. His next gain was in the medical care and treatment given by the institution to its patients, through which a steady return to sound physical health was secured. Supplementing this, was a thoroughly intelligent hygienic system, through which the health so regained, was steadily improved and strengthened.
The moral and religious influences under which he came, were of the most beneficial kind. Free from the morbid action of alcohol on the brain, his intellect and moral perceptions were clear once more. He could see and feel with a new intensity, the obligations which were resting upon him as a man, and the solemn responsibility to which he must be held, if he did not keep them. There was a quickening of his higher, purer and better feelings — of honor, and a sense of duty — of all the tender social affections. Love for his wife and children, and shame and sorrow for the wrong and suffering he had brought upon them — grew deeper and deeper as the cure went on. He wrote to me several times while in the institution, and his letters were of the most satisfactory character. He had gained wonderfully in health, and felt, he said, no desire for alcohol whatever, and was sure that he should never touch it again.
In the first letter that I received from him, he spoke of the incidents attendant on his arrival at the institution. I give a portion of this letter:
"On the second day," he wrote, "as I was sitting by myself, feeling strange and ill at ease — a little old man, with a large head, clear blue eyes, and a kind, cheery face, came into the parlor, and seeing me, bowed with a courtly air, and said a pleasant 'Good morning.' My response was somewhat cold and distant, for I was greatly depressed in spirits, and could not rally myself on the instant. He passed through, and as he left the room, I felt my heart going out, as it were, after him. In about ten minutes he came back, and, drawing a chair, sat down by me, with the remark, 'This is one of our perfect days. Have you noticed the peculiar softness of the sky?' I tried to rouse myself to meet, in a befitting way, his kind advances; but did it, I fear, almost ungraciously. It was only a little while, however, before the frank and genial warmth of his manner, had completely won me, and I found myself talking with him as with a pleasant friend. Almost before I knew it, he had led me to speak of myself, and of my past life.
"There was about him something which inspired confidence. I felt that no idle sentiment of curiosity, but a genuine interest in my welfare, had drawn him towards me, and that he was seeking to gain my friendly feelings, that he might do me good. He had not spoken half a dozen sentences, before I recognized in him a man of culture; and saw in his bearing, the true grace of a refined gentleman. It was not long before we were walking the floor of the parlor, his arm drawn within that of mine, deeply engaged in a conversation, which we kept up for over an hour. At its close, I felt that I had found a new friend, as it has proved, for this quiet, intelligent, refined and gentlemanly old man, is none other than ourchaplain."
Again he wrote: "In Dr. Bush, our chaplain, about whom I spoke in one of my letters, we have a man of rare fitness for the office which he holds in this institution. I never pass an hour with him without feeling stronger for the interview. He said to me, a day or two ago, 'In God and good health, lie your only help and sure dependence. You must keep the body sound, avoid all dangers, and take no risks. With regular living, and healthy surroundings, and a mind full of faith and hope in spiritual realities — this sad disorder, with which you have been afflicted, will, in time, die out.' In his unobtrusive and wise way, he moves about among the patients, holding them in conversation by such themes as touch theirtastes and habits of thinking most readily; but always at some point turning their thoughts to spiritual things, and pointing them to Christ as their surest refuge.
"He has great influence over all who are here, and there are some who appear to rest on, and cling to him as if all the strength they were receiving actually came through his agency. The more I see and know of him, and the more I talk with him — the stronger grows my conviction, that the saving power of the work that is being done here, is largely due to the influence this good man has with the inhabitants."
In a letter written nearly two months after he entered the asylum, Mr. Granger said:
"I had a long talk with our chaplain yesterday, and he related many deeply interesting incidents connected with his office in the institution. He has a large correspondence, I find, with people who have been patients here; and his influence with many of them is still very strong. He encourages them to write to him freely, and to tell him about their surroundings and peculiar trials and temptations, in order that he may send helpful advice and wise counsel, if there should be need therefor. I notice that while he speaks minutely of cases, he rarely mentions names. But I refer to him now because of some things which he said that reminded me of a conversation I had with you. The line of thought he pursued, was very similar to yours, though some of his premises and conclusions were different. 'All of our power to resist temptation and to live true and orderly lives,' he said, 'comes from God. The gift of strength is from above; the will to use it lies within ourselves. If we will not use this strength, God cannot help us in times of difficulty, nor save us in times of danger. But, into our right endeavor, if it be resolutely made — will come a divine power which shall enable us to stand as a rock, though the floods of temptation beat ever so strongly against us. And here, my friend,' he added, laying his hand upon me, and speaking with great earnestness, 'let me impress upon you this thought, that it is only in the maintenance of true order in our natural and physical lives, that we come into such a relation to spiritual laws and forces, that they can protect and save us. A true spiritual life cannot be established in any one, so long as his natural life remains in disorder. If you want God's help in the new life you are now living, you must, while asking spiritual aid, do your part in the work of establishing sound physical health. Praying will avail nothing if you do not do this also. When you go away from here, you must make it a religious duty to avoid over-strain in your work, and the consequent nervous exhaustion which will surely follow. All the laws of physical and moral health, must be strictly observed; and you must be especially watchful lest you get over, unaware, upon the enemy's ground. If duty calls you there, go with armor and sword, and you will find no armor so impenetrable, and no sword so keen and effective — as the armor of God's Holy Word, and the truths which lie sheathed in its precious sentences. Use these when the tempter assaults you, and he will turn and flee.'
"You can see how good and helpful all this is. 'Right thinking is one of the surest ways to right acting,' we often hear him say. 'If men would do right, they must know right,' is another of his apt sentences. And he never tires in his efforts to supplement the medical, social and moral agencies of cure that are so effective in many cases under treatment here, with the soundest common sense advice, and the tenderest, most heart-searching and deeply solemn ministrations of a devoted spiritual friend and teacher."
At the end of three months, Granger considered his cure so complete that he wished to return home and resume the practice of his profession, which was suffering greatly on account of his absence. In this, he was opposed by the superintendent, who urged him to remain longer; in fact, not to think of leaving the institution until he had remained there for at least six months. The superintendent understood his case, better than he understood it himself, and knew that he was very far from being cured. Treating alcoholism as a disease of the physical organism, manifesting itself in a species of moral insanity, and understanding enough of the pathology of drunkenness to know that it wrought changes of condition of singular permanency, and left a most remarkable sensitiveness to exciting causes — he understood the great value of time in the work of strengthening the system, so that it might, when exposed to assault, be able to resist the encroachments of disease. But he was not able to induce Mr. Granger to remain at the institution for a longer time than four months.
I met him soon after his return home. Four months under the new influences to which he had been subjected, had wrought in him a marked change. I had never seen him in better physical health. His eyes were strong and bright, his complexion clear, his muscles round and tense. You saw that life, mental and physical, had gained a higher strength.
"I'm a new man, Lyon," said he, confidently, as he grasped my hand at our first meeting. "A new man," he repeated, "morally, mentally and physically. The lost man has been found; the sick man restored to health; the dead man is alive again."
There was a certain overglow of enthusiasm about him, to which I could not heartily respond. He observed this, saying: "Wait and see, my friend. This isn't the old, sick, miserable body that I took away, with its relaxed pores standing open to drink in every disease that floated in the air. Here is healthy blood, and firm flesh, and high vital action; and what is more, reason and will have regained strength and dominion. I have found my lost manhood!"
"And may God give you the strength to keep it," I made answer, speaking from a conviction which I could not repress, that only in God's help was there any sure hope for this man.
"He has given it already," he replied. "And I am taking it and using it. He is always giving; and we faint and fall by the way — only because we do not take of the measure of strength which we need. This is your doctrine, I believe, Mr. Lyon."
"Yes," I returned, but not with any heartiness of manner.
"Not skeptical here, I trust," said Granger, with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
"No. All our strength must come from God. In Him we live and move and have our being. The only question is — how are we to get this strength? And I will confess to you, Mr. Granger, that my mind is not so well settled on this point, as it was a year or two ago. I had great faith in a man's will then. That faith is weaker now. And, if I must say it, out ofyour experience has come many of my doubts and questionings."
'Indeed." A shade of surprise in his manner.
"You remember that turning over of a new leaf a long time ago, and what Mr. Stannard said to you in regard to the writing thereon? About the 'I will not,' and 'By the help of God?'"
"Yes."
"And how I said that we received God's help only when we made an effort to do the right. That His strength flowed then into our endeavor, and only then?"
"Yes — and you said the truth."
"But you did not find it so, Mr. Granger."
A deeper shadow of surprise on his face. "I did not use the strength. That was all."
"Why not?"
"The will failed, I suppose."
"Ah! There it is. The will to take the strength was lacking."
"Yes," he answered, with a falling away from its firmness in his voice.
"I've thought a great deal about this in the last few months, Granger, and I'm afraid there's some error in my reasoning about God's ways with man. That in our efforts to do right, or resist evil — a divine strength sufficient for our day will not always come. It seems to me that it ought to come; but does it come? What is your experience?"
"I have had the strength to resist, as you know, and have stood in that strength for long periods of time," he answered.
"True; but it failed at last. Now God's power should never fail; and I have a conviction that it never does fail. What then?" He did not answer me.
"There is one sphere of safety into which I think it will be wise for you to come," said I.
"What is that?" he asked.
"The sphere of the church."
There was no warm response in his face.
"So far as my observation goes," he replied, "church people are no better than others."
"More the shame for them," I answered. "But it is possible that your observation in this direction has been limited."
"Well, as you know, I've never taken much to religion. I'm not one of that kind. I go to church with my wife occasionally, but never get much interested. Now and then I hear a sermon that sets me to thinking; but, for the most part, I find it dull work."
"I inferred, from some things said in your letters, that you had become deeply impressed with the value and necessity of divine help," said I. "Did not Mr. Bush, the chaplain of whom you spoke so warmly, urge you to join some church, and to come within the sphere of its saving influences?"
"Oh, yes. He spoke to me with great earnestness on this very subject. But a man may trust in God, even though he be not a church member. Christianity means justice, and honor, and right living; and I find as much of this outside, as inside of the churches."
"The Church," I replied, "has been established by God. It is His kingdom on the earth; and its laws are divine truths revealed to us in Scripture. These laws, as you know, are very pure, and based on love to God and the neighbor. It is nothing against the Church, that some of its members do not comprehend the spirit and meaning of its laws; nor live in a true conformity thereto; and nothing against its power to protect us from evil, if we come within the sphere of its influence."
"You may be right in all that, Mr. Lyon; are right, no doubt; and I intend going to church with my family more regularly than heretofore."
"Do so by all means. I had a long talk with Mr. Stannard only last week on this very subject of church-going; and one or two things that he said, have made a strong impression on my mind."
"Mr. Stannard is one of the best men I ever knew. If all professing Christians squared their lives by their doctrines as he does, Christianity would mean something," remarked Granger. "What did he say?"
"If for no other reason, he said, we should go to church to hear the reading of the Bible."
"We may read the Bible at home, if we will," Granger replied.
"True; if we will," I returned.
"And, then," he rejoined, "you know one may read the Bible every day, and a dozen times a day for that matter — and it will do him no good unless he obeys its precepts."
"A knowledge of the law must go before obedience. This is as true of divine, as of human laws. But I wish to bring to your attention one or two things said by Mr. Stannard in regard to the power of Holy Scripture, and the sphere of safety into which it must bring everyone who receives it into his thought reverently, and lets it dwell there. They were new to me. Being the Word of God, the presence of any portion thereof in the thought, must, he said, bring, in a certain sense, God within us, and consequently nearer with His divine power to the enemies of our souls who are ever seeking to gain dominion over us; so enabling Him to fight in and for us by the power of His Word."
Granger sat reflecting on this for a considerable time.
"If that is so," he said, at length, "there is a saving power in the Bible, beyond what I had thought."
"And a use in going to church beyond what you and I had imagined?"
"Yes."
"For the reading of the Bible makes up a portion of the services, and the sphere of reverence and attention which we find in worshiping assemblies, adjusts the mind to hearing, and opens it to deeper impressions. The Word gets a firmer hold upon us and remains longer with us. We take it away in our memories; and when in temptation, can bring it out therefrom as a weapon — the sword of the Spirit — with which to fight our enemies.
"Mr. Stannard said," I continued, "that God's Holy Word is sufficient for us under any circumstances of temptation; and that we have only to resist the devil as our Savior resisted when led into the wilderness to be tempted — and he will depart from us."
"How did He resist?" asked Mr. Granger.
"By the utterance of truth from Scripture; and the power of this Divine Word was so great, that the devil could not stand before it."
"Yes, that is so. 'It is written,' was the Lord's answer. I never thought of its meaning before."
"In the very way, that strength for victory came to Him as He met the hosts of Hell on the plane of His infirm human nature — will it come to us and give us the victory also, said Mr. Stannard. From this view of the case, the value of public worship is evident, and I am sure, Mr. Granger, that you will stand safer within, than outside the sphere of the church."
"You may be right," he answered. "Nay, I am sure you are right. I must see Mr. Stannard and have a talk with him. He is one of the men in whom I believe."
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