John Mark

Having returned to the hotel at which I was staying I retired immediately to bed. I slept but little during the night, my fancy having been kept awake by the expressive interview of the preceding evening. The eventful narrative of Frederick Charlston's career was ever present to my mind, producing feelings akin to those of an experienced reality. But the most striking characteristic was the singular dream to which I have alluded. Dreams in general are nothing more than the echoes of the soul, or the breathings of imagination when the consciousness of the mind is in a latent state. Some dreams however, may be the productions of a spiritual agency photographing as it were through the electric telegraph of the soul the impressions of the real event upon the mind of the person who is absent, causing strange forebodings to loom up in the horizon of imagination. Be this as it may, it is a well known fact, that dreams have been occasionally verified. Thousands of them, however, are by the dreamer construed to suit circumstances. But the millions of these visions that arise nightly from the bed-chambers of the world are nothing more than the flickerings of the mind, at random, and like vapor, arising into the atmosphere of the soul, frequently assuming a variety of fantastic forms as a metamorphoses of preconceived ideas.

Immediately on hearing of the arrival of the English Mail I hurried down to the Post-Office, and inquired of the gentleman in attendance if there were anything for Frederick Charlston. Shuffling over a pile of letters he drew one out and handed it to me. It was mounted with deep mourning, and heavily sealed with black sealing wax. I was startled at the appearance thereof. I took but a momentary gaze and requested him to forward it by the next mail to Hamilton. I felt an anxious curiosity to know the contents of the Black-Sealed Letter. I felt certain that some of Frederick's relatives had recently died. The aspect of his dream more forcibly impressed itself upon my mind. But let a few days more pass away, and the mystery will be solved.

At the end of the second week after this occurrence I went up to Hamilton: and shortly after my arrival called upon the Upholsterer. He told me that Frederick had not been at the workshop during the past few days, owing to an attack of illness. He directed me to the hotel at which Frederick was boarding. I went there, and was by the innkeeper shown into a bedroom, in which he was reclining upon a couch reading a newspaper. On seeing me he sprang forward and grasped my hand affectionately in his own, and began sobbing aloud, the tears gushing from his eyes. For a few seconds I stood motionless in sad bewilderment of mind, feeling assured that something of a serious nature had occurred. At length I ventured to express a desire to know what had happened. He then drew from his pocket a letter, and handed it to me. I recognized it at once as the "Black-Sealed-Letter." I opened it with trembling hand, and read as follows:

"London, England, Sept. 20th, 1870.

"Dear Cousin Frederick.—I received your letter of the 28th ultimo on the 18th inst., and was sorry indeed to hear of your illness, from which I hope you have completely recovered. It gives me pleasure however to know that you will again be amongst us. No doubt you will feel happy to see your old friends again. But short as the time has been since you left, you will find on your return that eventful changes have taken place. Our life on earth is only a struggle with itself, too frequently surrounded with adverse circumstances, that are prolific with sad events, and gloomy with suffering and disappointment. And were it not that the Star of Bethlehem still shines in the firmament of Heaven the glory of this world would transmit but a dim light upon the soul of the Christian life. Then be prepared, my dear friend, to endure the ills of adversity with a noble heart. Although a dark shadow may fall suddenly upon your earthly vision, at once direct your eyes in faith towards the Star of Celestial Glory; and the light of Heaven will dispel the darkness, even, were it the shadow of Death.

"You desired of me to give particular information respecting Clara Hazeldon. In accordance with your request I suppose I must do so. Through disappointment, in hoping against hope, she became low spirited, and failed considerably in health; and, on hearing of your intended adventure in the Red River expedition, relinquished every hope of your return, and shortly afterwards became the wife of Charles Holstrom.

"Your child is still in your father's family, and is a bright-eyed-healthy-looking boy, resembling you very much indeed. At the request of your relatives, but with considerable reluctance on my part, I now undertake to inform you of an event which has recently occurred in your own family. They consider it better to make it known to you by letter than allow the reality unexpectedly to force itself upon your mind at your return.

"On the 20th day of July last, your mother, by a fall down the stairway, unfortunately got one of her limbs broken. It was considered necessary to have it amputated. Mortification set in shortly afterwards, eventually proving fatal. At an early hour on the morning of the 25th, only five days after the occurrence, your dear mother breathed her last, surrounded by her weeping relatives. She was sensible to within a few hours of her death. Her dying words conferred a blessing upon you. She died happy, and with full assurance of a blessed immortality.

"Striking as this announcement must be to your mind, I trust that with the help of God you will be enabled to bear up under the severe affliction. Sooner or later we must all die; and by what means we know not. Then let this event be another warning to us to prepare effectually for our exit to eternity. May God bless you, my dear friend. May Christ be your spiritual Physician, to pour the Balm of Gilead upon your troubled soul; and through Divine power may you ere long be conducted back in health and safety to your old home.

"Your friends join in expressing their love to you.

"I remain, dear Frederick, your affectionate cousin.

"William A. Thornton."

Appended to the above letter was the following note from Eliza, Frederick's eldest sister:

"These are sad news indeed," said I, returning the letter to Frederick.

"Very, very sad, indeed, almost insufferable!" said he.

Having paused for a few moments he continued. "My dream has been forcibly verified. How overwhelming is the reality that my poor mother is no more. Had I been present when she died it would have given some consolation to my soul. But, oh! to think of the manner in which I fled from her presence, and also from my happy home: to think of the sufferings both mentally and physically she must have endured: to think of the unfortunate circumstances of her death; to think that I, her favorite son, was absent in her dying hours, without an opportunity of confessing my errors and asking her forgiveness: to think of these alone, is sufficient to break my very heart. Nor is this all. She to whose loving heart I pledged my affections as a bond of an eternal union, has become the life-companion of another. But I reproach her not for so doing. She was faithful; I alone was false. She had hoped against hope; and not until she had despaired of my return did she seek out a help-mate and home for herself. It is only another unfortunate circumstance of my life. I feel deeply the wound it has inflicted; but I will not avenge it. My life is apparently a life of troubles, and like Job of old I am ready to curse the day of my birth. I, myself, may be the author of it all; but it seems to me that some demon, like the evil spirit of King Saul, has taken possession of life's-citadel, and strews my pathway with pandoric ills."

"My dear sir, I do really sympathise with you in your affliction," said I. "But under such trying circumstances confide in God and he will be your friend indeed."

"But for me there is no Balm in Gilead: there is no physician there," he exclaimed. "As a fallen sinner I again sought for balm in the Vineyard of Satan. I had recourse to the demon-wizard of intoxication, and drank from his enchanted bowl. It was impossible to live and do otherwise; for elsewhere I could find no consolation for my grief. I drank deeply for two days and two nights after having received the letter. I then resumed my work: and with a saddened heart and a weakened constitution, labored until three days ago, when, I again broke the bonds of my resolutions. To-day I am sobering off myself: and when my bottle is emptied of its contents, I shall drink no more."

Saying this, he took from his trunk a bottle half-full with liquor.

"Look here," said he. "You see how short a distance is now between me and total-abstinence. But, my dear friend, I will not insult your feelings by tasting of it in your presence."

Therewith he returned the bottle to its place. In answer to my enquiries he stated that he still intended to return to England in December, and for that purpose had resolved to economise his time and means, and never taste of liquor again.

"Ah," said he, "liquor and evil company have been my ruin. Through the influence of bad companions I first broke the pledge when at Tiverton: and by doing so at that time, I upset all my projected designs. I have been re-building and upsetting ever since; but somehow my superstructure appears to have no solid basis. However, I am determined to try once more and make amends for the past."

I told him that I intended in the course of a few days to go on as far as New London, and would be absent at least a month. I would then return by way of Hamilton, and accompany him as far as Montreal, on my way home: it being about the time he purposed leaving for England. He appeared to be delighted with the idea of so doing, and heartily thanked me for the kindness I shewed towards him.

On the following morning he resumed his work apparently with renewed cheerfulness and vigor; and during the ten days I remained in Hamilton he improved rapidly in both body and spirit. We met together every evening and passed an hour or two very pleasantly, and I may add, profitably. He never once tasted of liquor during that time; but seemed more determined than ever to resist its temptation. I advised him to remove to some private boarding house; where he would be less exposed to the influence of liquor and evil company: but he seemed unwilling to comply therewith on account of his intended removal in so short a time. On the morning of that day on which I left Hamilton I called at the shop, where he was vigorously at work. On bidding him good-bye, I expressed a wish that he would remain true to the principle of total-abstinence, entreating him to supplicate Divine aid to enable him to do so.

"There may be some breakers ahead" said he, "but I think I can steer in the right course now."

Then bidding each other good bye, we parted—never to meet again on earth.

On my return to Hamilton I called at the hotel and requested to see Frederick Charlston.

"O, he's gone, sir," abruptly ejaculated the innkeeper.

"Gone, sir!" said I. "Where, and when did he go?"

"Well, all I can say about him, is that he went off to his grave about a week ago," he replied.

"Do you mean to say that Frederick Charlston is dead?" said I.

"Why, yes, sir," said he, "the fellow's as flat as a board now."

"What was the cause of his death?" I inquired.

"Drinking more whiskey than he was able to hold, so he sprang a leak and sank, cargo and all," he replied, jokingly, with a humorous grin, endeavouring to be witty at the expense of his victim.

This unexpected intelligence struck me so forcibly that for several seconds I stood motionless and bewildered. I then walked away with a sorrowful heart indeed. I could scarcely give credence to the announcement until it was confirmed by the upholsterer whom I called upon, and who related the following circumstances connected with the death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.

"Two weeks ago last Thursday night," said he, "a couple of fast youths who were carousing merrily at the hotel, persuaded Frederick to take a sip with them. But one taste was sufficient to rouse up the evil spirit again within his bosom. He drank deeply that night and for two days continued his carousal; but was at length turned out upon the street by the innkeeper for disturbing the necessitated quietness of the Saturday night. He found his way to the woodshed, where he laid himself down and fell asleep. In about two hours he awoke shivering with cold; and was ultimately admitted into the hotel. Next morning he was in a feverish state, and confined to bed. Towards evening his condition became more alarming, and a messenger was sent for me. I hurried thither, and procured a doctor immediately. Had it been prudent to do so, I would have removed him at once to my own house; however, I did all for him that I possibly could do! My wife and I in turn sat by his bedside and watched over him with tender care. But all was in vain. His fever continued to increase and he became delirious. At times he would startle up wildly from his couch, shouting frantically as if in the agonies of horror, frequently calling and in pitiable and heart-rending tones upon his mother to forgive him: and to come and help him out of the horrible pit into which he had fallen, &c. &c. But the scene during those moments was too appalling to admit of further description. Finally he became calm, and sank into a peaceful slumber from which he never awoke on earth. On the morning of the fifth day of his illness, November 30th, he breathed his last, and his spirit passed away forever into the regions of eternity.

"Poor Frederick, he is gone. My heart is saddened by his death!" continued he, apparently much affected. "With all his faults he had a noble soul. Poor fellow! he is gone now. I gave him a decent burial. I wrote to his father informing him of his son's death; but modified the circumstances connected therewith; however, it will be sad intelligence indeed."

The history of Frederick Charlston is now told. His career was brief. It is however pregnant with unfortunate events, and contains excellent material for moral reflection. It is in itself a lesson for the young and the inexperienced, showing the sad results of a self-willed confidence, the love of vain-glory in adventure, the yielding of moral principles to gratify the desire of either oneself or that of others:—and worse than all, the sacrificing of the nobler attributes of human nature to the insidious wiles of evil society and intoxicating liquor. Millions of young men, as moral and as self-confident as Frederick Charlston, have been physically and morally ruined as he was. Once yielding a little to immoral influence gives the first impetus to a downward tendency. Continue to repeat it, and the inertia becomes stronger, and the descent more easy.

"I see no harm in a social glass with a friend," cries one.

"Let cold-water-fanatics preach until doomsday and hurl their anathemas against inebriates," exclaims another, "but they never shall prevent me from taking my occasional glass."

"Nor I," says a third. "An occasional glass with a companion is the very life-spring of social nature. It assimilates one mind with another. It dispels sadness, and invigorates both soul and body. It opens up the fountains of the heart, and joy gushes out, sparkling with wit and melody. Wherefore then should I deprive myself of those blessings, on purpose to gratify the whims of some cold-water quack? Wherefore then should I bind my liberties with a pledge as a safe-guard to prevent me from becoming a drunkard? If other men have been foolish enough to allow themselves to become drunkards by abusing one of the precious gifts of nature, is that sufficient reason that I should not drink? I think not. I am no drunkard, nor shall I become one; therefore I will do as I please with my own liberty and independence."

Such is indeed the false philosophy of too many moderate drinkers. No man is a confirmed drunkard at once. It is by degrees that men generally become inebriates. "Take but a glass," says the recruiting sergeant of Bacchus, "it will do you no harm." But one glass is but the starting point. It is the magnet that attracts material akin to itself. What a world of degradation has been generated by this nucleus of intemperance.

Intoxicating liquor is indeed the most prolific source of wretchedness and crime. It has been and still is the greatest curse to humanity. It is the curse of curses. The grave is filled with its wrecks. The fire of hell is fed by its fuel. Millions upon millions of human beings has it hurled down to the blackest regions of eternity. How daring then must that man be;—how utterly lost to every principle of morality, who would hazard an assertion in favor of intoxicating drinks as a source of benefit to mankind. The universal evidence of all ages would be against him. The horrid shrieks of suffering humanity would denounce his arguments. Millions of grinning skeletons, blackened with every crime (if permitted) would startle forth from their infernal dungeons; and in myriads of drunkards' graves the rattling of dry bones would be heard: Yea, even hell, its very self, bloated with the souls of inebriates, would groan with indignation. Nay, call it not happiness that sparkles in the eye of the rum-drinker and softens his heart and tongue into kindred sympathy with each other. Happiness arises not from the flickerings of the brain when heated by the reeking fumes of the liquor glass. Nor does it arise from the fervid impulses of the heart when excited by the steaming vapors of the rum bowl. Neither does it exist in the fluctuating feelings of animal nature when stimulated into action by the demon-spirit of the brandy bottle. Nor does happiness consist in the wild revelry of human beings, like madmen, recklessly sporting their fantastic tricks around the unhallowed altar of Bacchus. Nay, term it not happiness, call it rather by the name of insanity.

In conclusion, if any of my readers are addicted to intemperance, or take only an occasional glass, with a friend, let me entreat of you to consider this momentous subject: to crush the bottle-serpent ere its fangs have pierced you fatally to the heart; and at once and forever, to dash the accursed bowl to the earth.

Once more, I earnestly entreat of you to pause and reflect. Think of the countless millions of human beings who have been utterly ruined soul and body forever by intemperance; think of the immeasurable mass of wretchedness and crime arising therefrom. Think of your present condition and your eternal future; and remember also that every man, even in his greatest strength is but a fallable creature; and finally my dear readers I ask of you to consider seriously the life, career and death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston.

Finis.