News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1893-07-20
KING ALCOHOL, THE CRUEL.
Sobs of Children His Music; Poverty and
Death Favors He Bestows.

| Sobs of Children His Music; Poverty and
Death FavOrs He Bestows.
King Alcohol sits on his throne and
rules with a rod of iron. He strikes to
kill ald always mains when he does
not kill Tears, hunger, heartache, de-
spair, poverty, ruin and death are some
of the favors he confers ON his subjects.
He is as heartless as famine, pitiless as
pestilence and cruel as death. When
Rome was burning Nero got his melo-
dies out of the fiddle, but this king gets
his music from the sobs of children, the
cries of the broken hearted and the aw-
full crash of doomed souls. Como with
me and behold one of his victims.
was told that a man lay dying from
drink in dismal cellar ON one of the
foulest streets of the city. An outside
cellar door, with stone steps which led
down from the sidewalk, gave me en-
trance to dark, dismal hole in the
ground. A woman stood within, and 1
said, ''They tell me aman is dying here"
Eyes; he is in the back ROOM"
''Back room! Great heavens, can there
be anything back of this?"
made my way into the black hole.
A candle standing ON the head of bar
rel gave but faint glimmer in the foul
air, and 1 needed to wait to get used to
the darkness. A Groan from a corner
showed me where one of the kings vic
tins lay on little straw spread on the
damp floor went over to him, knelt
by his side, reached over and grasped
his bony hand and said, "My brother,
they tell me you are dying"
He snatched his hand away and said,
81 am dying wretch, but for Gods sake
don't insult me-
Insult you! How have 1 insulted
you?"
"When you call wretch like me
brother, it is an insult, for you don't
mean it. / am brother to no man, and
no man is brother . me-"
Give me your hand, for you are my
brother. God is your father and mine.
Christ died to save you and me. The
gospel is good news for us both. Let
me hold your hand while pray for my
brother"
"Too late for that. 1 am beyond all
hope. Drink has been my ruin and my
curse, and | am lost"
He grew excited, and trying to quiet
him I said, What is your manner
81 won't tell you my name. go by
such namo. but it's not my real one"
"Why won't you tell me your name?'
because don't want any one to know
who am or how die"
"Why not? Perhaps you have some
one who loves you yet and would want
to know"
mo! Nor he cried. Listen. In
little church-a Presbyterian church-in
little country village over in Pennsyl-
vania an old white haired man stands up
every Sunday and breaches this gospel
of which you speak. That man is nly
father, made prematurely old by the ruin
of his boy. Back of the church, in
grave. lies my mother. My hayward
ness broke her heart and sent her to an
untimely grave. If my father knew how
his only boy died, he would soon lie along
side of nv mother. won't tell you who
am. am beyond the hope OF mercy.
Drink has been my ruin. You come too
iate-too late"
He Law dead, A nameless grave in
potters field contains the body of some
preachers boy. And since that day, 10
years ago, 1000, 900 more havegone down
the same road.
Yet the king still sits on his throne
and laughs over the ruin that makes
heaven weep. "How long, o Lord, how
long?'-Rev. G. II. Mead in Christian
Herald.