The Doctor's Prescription.
By Margaret E. Winslow
JAMES MORDAUNT was one of those unfortunate young men born with a natural appetite for drink, which the circumstances of his life tended to develop rather than diminish. He early entered the navy where his great natural ability gave promise of distinction and rapid advancement, while at the same time his constant yielding to his fatal propensity threatened to destroy all his fair prospects. But salvation came, or seemed to come, in the form of a temperance society, started by the efforts of the master of his ship, and encouraged by Commodore F—, the best and most thoroughly Christian man our United States navy has ever known. James became a thorough temperance man, and in connection with his friend, the master, did great good among the seamen of the Mississippi squadron. The war was over, and Lieutenant Mordaunt, who had well earned his promotion, had been married some years when he was stationed at the Navy Yard at B—, and here, as it happened, he was again thrown in with his old friend, the master. Having two young children, he preferred to reside "in his own hired house," in a pleasant part of the city, attending to his naval duties during the day, and returning to his cheery little home and bright young wife at night. A pleasant home it was, as his bachelor friend, the master, a constant and welcome guest, thought. Mordaunt was a member of a Christian church, became very intimate with the chaplain of the yard, and soon was immersed in plans of usefulness for the seamen and employes among whom his lot was cast. Could a man have a brighter lot or a surer prospect of happiness? Yet there was a little cloud no bigger than a man's hand looming in the distance, destined to blot out the sunshine and bring in everlasting darkness and despair. And it was coming from a most unexpected quarter. Mordaunt had been suffering for some time with dyspepsia, and applied to a celebrated physician for relief. "A few spoonfuls of brandy after each meal is the best digester," said the doctor. "But I never take brandy: I am a Temperance man." "So am I; but common sense marks the bounds of everything. Don't be a fanatic, Mordaunt; all things have their uses, and medecine is the true use of brandy. There never was a pledge yet that was intended to exclude a physician's prescription. If you cannot trust my judgment," he added stiffly, "I can do no more for you. Good morning!" And so James Mordaunt yielded to the prestige of medical authority, and took after each meal three or four spoonfuls of the poison which he considered as forsworn forever. Certainly he felt better; a pleasant little exhilaration took the place of the gnawing sensation which had troubled him so long, and when it failed to produce that effect he increased the dose. Was it likely that he would stop there? Let those answer who with a strong natural inclination for liquor have for years refrained from its indulgence, and then suddenly tasted it again. "I am anxious about my husband," said Mrs. Mordaunt; "he has not been home for three nights, and has sent me no word. Could you inquire at the Navy Yard for me to-morrow morning?" "Has he ever stayed at the yard all night before?" said his friend, the master. "Yes, once or twice of late, but he always sent me word that he was detained, and generally came home to breakfast. Now I have not seen him since Wednesday morning. I can't think why he has not sent me word." It was Sunday morning. The master called upon the Navy Yard chaplain just as he was preparing for his ship-board service, with inquiries concerning his friend. "He is laid on board the receiving-ship, sick," said the chaplain. "Sick, and not send for his wife!" said the master. "I will go for her at once." "No, I think you had better not. The fact is, Mordaunt has been having a regular spree, and as he does not want his wife or anyone to know it, he is wearing out the effect on shipboard. The surgeon tells me this morning it's a pretty bad case of delirium; he has some fears of the poor fellows life." "What shall I tell his wife?" said the visitor. "I wouldn't tell her anything to-day. Step in to-morrow morning, and perhaps there will be better accounts. He knows no one now, and might feel badly to have her see him in this condition. It will be time enough to tell her when we must. It's a sad affair, and for the sake of religion, ought to be kept as quiet as possible." It was a long Sunday for the master to pass without relieving the anxiety of the waiting wife, but he did pass it, and on presenting himself at the Navy Yard in the morning was met by the intelligence that James Mordaunt was dead! Dead in raving delirium, with no farewell to loved ones, no thought of the terrible step he was taking, no consoling presence, no repentance, no prayer! I cannot depict the wife's agony; we may not follow the lost one to the closed bar of that Heaven into which no drunkard may enter; but we may call upon the misguided physician, by all that is sacred in earth or Heaven, to take to heart the lesson afforded by his prescription. The particulars were given to the writer by the master who urged her to use them in calling attention to the terrible responsibilities of physicians in prescribing brandy and whisky for every slight or chronic ailment. There must be something which will answer the purpose as well; and if the scientific skill of chemists and the practical experience of physicians cannot discover it, then better let men die in the way of God's appointment, than kill and send them to hell by the poison which destroys both body and soul. It will be little compensation to the lost soul to remember that life was blighted, hearts broken, and his eternity ruined, through a doctor's prescription.
—Margaret E. Winslow.