CONFESSIONS OF A DECANTER
Proofed and corrected from the scanned original edition.
*****
An excerpt:
"My dear son, how can I tell it, but the outline you must have heard. He fell. Yes! the allurements not of bad company, but of good society, proved too much for him. He studied hard, it was said he needed stimulants, kind hands offered them, oh, cruel kindness! kind voices wooed him to his ruin! A temperament less highly nervous, might have better resisted their effects. I'm not here to tell you the degrees by which he fell, but the fact. Yes! he fell, and then those who had been active to allure, were horror-stricken, and became as active to condemn. He left the place, not only a disgraced man, but a disgraced minister; feeling that he had 'crucified his Lord afresh, and put Him to an open shame.' But, though he left the scene of his once holy labours, and recent disgrace, he did not put away the cause of that disgrace. In feeble health, and loneliness, and sorrow, he yielded to the Tempter. His circumstances were bad. He began to write for the press. I should not dare tell you this, my son, if I had made no effort to rescue him. It was for his sake I signed the temperance pledge, and wrote to him, and came again and again, before he sank to such a dwelling as this. Alas! in vain. Your dear father's long illness impeded my efforts; my brother drank more and more I was told. We lost sight of him altogether for a time. Now and then, I recognised his hand in the articles I read in one of the Magazines, but even in these, the manner was altered. Gloomy views of life, dreary doubts, or cynical strictures, were all that the fine intellect, once so instinct with hallowed fire could give,—this ceased. Your dear father's death was seen by him in the papers, and he wrote to me a wild, strange letter, I answered it, and then came this week, a wreathed blotted scrawl, calling on me to come, for he was dying. I don't wonder at your grief my boy, so recently as you have stood at your dear father's death-bed. Ah, there, all was peace and joy. Here! Oh, my poor William! Promise me, my boy, that God helping you, you never will enter into that temptation, that has been his ruin, and the ruin of thousands—myriads! Oh, be humble, my James. Do not think that you can stand in the slippery paths, where so many of the wise and good have fallen."
"Dear Mother, I do promise that I will pray to be enabled to walk in the steps of my father and yourself."
"As far, my son, as we have followed Christ, who denied Himself for us."
Just then, the misery of the scene she had witnessed, seemed to come over the mourner with over-whelming force, and the youth took her weeping bitterly from the room, and I saw them no more. I was taken by rough hands, back to my former quarters,—not, however, long to abide there,—other changes were soon in store for me.
1100702435
*****
An excerpt:
"My dear son, how can I tell it, but the outline you must have heard. He fell. Yes! the allurements not of bad company, but of good society, proved too much for him. He studied hard, it was said he needed stimulants, kind hands offered them, oh, cruel kindness! kind voices wooed him to his ruin! A temperament less highly nervous, might have better resisted their effects. I'm not here to tell you the degrees by which he fell, but the fact. Yes! he fell, and then those who had been active to allure, were horror-stricken, and became as active to condemn. He left the place, not only a disgraced man, but a disgraced minister; feeling that he had 'crucified his Lord afresh, and put Him to an open shame.' But, though he left the scene of his once holy labours, and recent disgrace, he did not put away the cause of that disgrace. In feeble health, and loneliness, and sorrow, he yielded to the Tempter. His circumstances were bad. He began to write for the press. I should not dare tell you this, my son, if I had made no effort to rescue him. It was for his sake I signed the temperance pledge, and wrote to him, and came again and again, before he sank to such a dwelling as this. Alas! in vain. Your dear father's long illness impeded my efforts; my brother drank more and more I was told. We lost sight of him altogether for a time. Now and then, I recognised his hand in the articles I read in one of the Magazines, but even in these, the manner was altered. Gloomy views of life, dreary doubts, or cynical strictures, were all that the fine intellect, once so instinct with hallowed fire could give,—this ceased. Your dear father's death was seen by him in the papers, and he wrote to me a wild, strange letter, I answered it, and then came this week, a wreathed blotted scrawl, calling on me to come, for he was dying. I don't wonder at your grief my boy, so recently as you have stood at your dear father's death-bed. Ah, there, all was peace and joy. Here! Oh, my poor William! Promise me, my boy, that God helping you, you never will enter into that temptation, that has been his ruin, and the ruin of thousands—myriads! Oh, be humble, my James. Do not think that you can stand in the slippery paths, where so many of the wise and good have fallen."
"Dear Mother, I do promise that I will pray to be enabled to walk in the steps of my father and yourself."
"As far, my son, as we have followed Christ, who denied Himself for us."
Just then, the misery of the scene she had witnessed, seemed to come over the mourner with over-whelming force, and the youth took her weeping bitterly from the room, and I saw them no more. I was taken by rough hands, back to my former quarters,—not, however, long to abide there,—other changes were soon in store for me.
CONFESSIONS OF A DECANTER
Proofed and corrected from the scanned original edition.
*****
An excerpt:
"My dear son, how can I tell it, but the outline you must have heard. He fell. Yes! the allurements not of bad company, but of good society, proved too much for him. He studied hard, it was said he needed stimulants, kind hands offered them, oh, cruel kindness! kind voices wooed him to his ruin! A temperament less highly nervous, might have better resisted their effects. I'm not here to tell you the degrees by which he fell, but the fact. Yes! he fell, and then those who had been active to allure, were horror-stricken, and became as active to condemn. He left the place, not only a disgraced man, but a disgraced minister; feeling that he had 'crucified his Lord afresh, and put Him to an open shame.' But, though he left the scene of his once holy labours, and recent disgrace, he did not put away the cause of that disgrace. In feeble health, and loneliness, and sorrow, he yielded to the Tempter. His circumstances were bad. He began to write for the press. I should not dare tell you this, my son, if I had made no effort to rescue him. It was for his sake I signed the temperance pledge, and wrote to him, and came again and again, before he sank to such a dwelling as this. Alas! in vain. Your dear father's long illness impeded my efforts; my brother drank more and more I was told. We lost sight of him altogether for a time. Now and then, I recognised his hand in the articles I read in one of the Magazines, but even in these, the manner was altered. Gloomy views of life, dreary doubts, or cynical strictures, were all that the fine intellect, once so instinct with hallowed fire could give,—this ceased. Your dear father's death was seen by him in the papers, and he wrote to me a wild, strange letter, I answered it, and then came this week, a wreathed blotted scrawl, calling on me to come, for he was dying. I don't wonder at your grief my boy, so recently as you have stood at your dear father's death-bed. Ah, there, all was peace and joy. Here! Oh, my poor William! Promise me, my boy, that God helping you, you never will enter into that temptation, that has been his ruin, and the ruin of thousands—myriads! Oh, be humble, my James. Do not think that you can stand in the slippery paths, where so many of the wise and good have fallen."
"Dear Mother, I do promise that I will pray to be enabled to walk in the steps of my father and yourself."
"As far, my son, as we have followed Christ, who denied Himself for us."
Just then, the misery of the scene she had witnessed, seemed to come over the mourner with over-whelming force, and the youth took her weeping bitterly from the room, and I saw them no more. I was taken by rough hands, back to my former quarters,—not, however, long to abide there,—other changes were soon in store for me.
*****
An excerpt:
"My dear son, how can I tell it, but the outline you must have heard. He fell. Yes! the allurements not of bad company, but of good society, proved too much for him. He studied hard, it was said he needed stimulants, kind hands offered them, oh, cruel kindness! kind voices wooed him to his ruin! A temperament less highly nervous, might have better resisted their effects. I'm not here to tell you the degrees by which he fell, but the fact. Yes! he fell, and then those who had been active to allure, were horror-stricken, and became as active to condemn. He left the place, not only a disgraced man, but a disgraced minister; feeling that he had 'crucified his Lord afresh, and put Him to an open shame.' But, though he left the scene of his once holy labours, and recent disgrace, he did not put away the cause of that disgrace. In feeble health, and loneliness, and sorrow, he yielded to the Tempter. His circumstances were bad. He began to write for the press. I should not dare tell you this, my son, if I had made no effort to rescue him. It was for his sake I signed the temperance pledge, and wrote to him, and came again and again, before he sank to such a dwelling as this. Alas! in vain. Your dear father's long illness impeded my efforts; my brother drank more and more I was told. We lost sight of him altogether for a time. Now and then, I recognised his hand in the articles I read in one of the Magazines, but even in these, the manner was altered. Gloomy views of life, dreary doubts, or cynical strictures, were all that the fine intellect, once so instinct with hallowed fire could give,—this ceased. Your dear father's death was seen by him in the papers, and he wrote to me a wild, strange letter, I answered it, and then came this week, a wreathed blotted scrawl, calling on me to come, for he was dying. I don't wonder at your grief my boy, so recently as you have stood at your dear father's death-bed. Ah, there, all was peace and joy. Here! Oh, my poor William! Promise me, my boy, that God helping you, you never will enter into that temptation, that has been his ruin, and the ruin of thousands—myriads! Oh, be humble, my James. Do not think that you can stand in the slippery paths, where so many of the wise and good have fallen."
"Dear Mother, I do promise that I will pray to be enabled to walk in the steps of my father and yourself."
"As far, my son, as we have followed Christ, who denied Himself for us."
Just then, the misery of the scene she had witnessed, seemed to come over the mourner with over-whelming force, and the youth took her weeping bitterly from the room, and I saw them no more. I was taken by rough hands, back to my former quarters,—not, however, long to abide there,—other changes were soon in store for me.
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CONFESSIONS OF A DECANTER
CONFESSIONS OF A DECANTER
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940012183781 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Leila's Books |
| Publication date: | 03/09/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 649 KB |
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