THE WORLD RUNS AWAY FROM US.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1250, 13 February 1896, Page 26

THE WORLD RUNS AWAY FROM US.

The other day we had a talk with a man who knew as little of the world around him as a baby. Yet he was a man of naturally fine intelligence. He had ju&t been relieved from prison. Ten years ago he was incarcerated under a life sentence. Recently, however, circumstances had arisen which proved his innocence, and he obtained his freedom. But nothing seemed as before. He had been stationary whilo the world moved on. Many of bis old friends were dead, and all were charged. A big slice of his career was lost, and worse than lost. Could he ever make it up ? No, never. Besides, although he had committed no offence, the mere fact that he had been convicted of one would always place him at a disadvantage. Different as it is in all outward condir tions, long illness produces results which resemble those of enforced solitude. When confined to our homes by disease we are virtually out of the world. Friends may, and do, pity us; but they do not lie down by our side and suffer with us. Ah ! no. They go their own ways and leave us alone. In the midst of company we are still alone. Enjoyment, food, sleep, fresh air, movement, work, &c.—those are for them, not for its. Alas ! for the poor prisoner whose jailor is some relentless disease. Who shall open the iron doors and. set him free ?

“ I have never had any rest or pleasure.” So writes a man whose letter we have just finished reading. “In the early part of 1S88,” he says, “a strange feeling came over me. I felt heavy, drowsy, languid and tired. Something appeared to be wrong with me, and I couldn’t account for it. I had a foul taste in the mouth, my appetite failed, and what I did eat lay on me like a stone. Soon I became afraid to eat, as the act was always followed by pain and distress. Sometimes 1 had a sensation of choking in the throat as if I could not swallow. I was swollen, too, around the body, and got about with difficulty owing to increasing weakness. “At the pit of my stomach was a hungry, craving sensation, as though I needed support from food ; j r ot the little I took did not abate this feeling. My sleep was broken, and I awoke in the morning unrefreshed. For four years I continued in this wretched state before I found relief.”

This letter is signed by Mr Charles 11. Smith, of 19, New City road, Glasgow, and dated February loth, 1893.

Beforo we hear how he was at last delivered from the slavery of illness, let us listen to tho word of a lady on the same theme ; Mrs Mary Ann Rusling, of Station road, Misterton, near Gainsborough. In a brief note dated January 3rd, 1893, Mrs Rusling says she suffered in a similar way for over 15 years. Her hands and feet were cold and clammy, and she was pale and bloodless. She had pain in the left side and palpitation, and her breathing was short and hurried. No medicines availed to help her until two years ago. “At that time,” she says, “ our minister, the late Rev Mr Watson, told me of Mother Seigel’s Curative Syrup, and urged me to make a trial of it. I did so, and presently felt great relief. It was not long before the bad symptoms all left me, and I gradually got strong. I keep in good health, and have pleasure in making known to others the remedy which did go much for me.” Mr Smith was completely cured by the same remedy, and says had ho known of it sooner he would have boon saved years of misery.

The real ailment in both these cases was indigestion and dyspepsia, with its natural consequences. Throughout the civilised world its course is marked by a hundred forms of pain and suffering. Men and women are torn to pieces by it as vessels are by the rocks on which they are driven by tempests. So comprehensive and allembracing is it that wo may almost say that there is no other disease. It signifies life transformed into death, bread turned into poison. Watch for its earliest signs —especially the feeling of weariness, languor, and fatigue, which announce its approach. Prevention is better than cure. But, by the use of Mother Seigel’s Curative Syrup, cure is always possible ; and poor captives in the loathsome dungeons of illness are daily delivered as the hand of the good German nurse swings open the doors.