At the age of three months, the death of his precious mother caused him to be given into the keeping of his aunt, a noble Christian woman, and it was due to her teachings that the seeds of reverence for God, belief in his dearly beloved Son and faith in the promise of a life of everlasting happiness were planted deep in the recesses of George Herr's heart, while his father, a Christian gentleman, spared no efforts in his endeavor to bring up his son in the way he should go.
At the age of eighteen years, through the death of his father, he came into the possession of a large estate, but lacking the experience which usually comes with maturity, he developed a spirit of independence which soon brought in its train of attendant evils.
Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak; O Lord, heal me.—Ps. 6:2.
My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect in weakness.—2 Cor. 12:9.
The story of George Herr's experience is the recital of a man's gradual surrender to the power of drink, until the enormity of his fall can but be depicted by contrasting his condition with that as it was a few years before. Then he was a well known young man of Louisville's elite society, wealthy, respected, esteemed and sought after. Friends without number, well wishers innumerable, the door of any refined home in the city would have swung wide open in welcome at his knock. Now the other picture: A drunken outcast, a prey to the buffetings of every chance wind of fate, deprived of friends, stripped of wealth, position and reputation; exposed to every form of evil, subject to the cruelty of every character of temptation that assails human nature. Ostracized from society, barred from contact with any self-respecting acquaintance of former days, can you imagine a more potent example of the victory of Satan through the agency of his chief field marshal, Drink? God grant that this may come as a warning to some one of the thousands of young men who, with prospects as bright or even more flattering than were those of George Herr at the age of eighteen, are at this moment entering upon the path which will lead them, as it has countless thousands, into the abyss of eternal destruction! God grant that the moral to be drawn from this picture will burn itself in indelible letters of fire upon the very soul of each young man who reads this.
I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God.—Ps. 70:5.
My God shall supply all your need, according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.—Phil. 4:19.
These were indeed dark days, the past a record of sin, the present a nightmare of misery and shame, the future black with the darkness of despair, with not the faintest gleam of hope to pierce the gloom. "Poor fellow," you say, "only one of a multitude." Yes, only the prototype of one of the thousands who are traveling the same broad thoroughfare at this moment.
It was at this critical juncture, when reputation was blasted, hope departed and the future barren of promises, that a remnant of respect for his home and the associates of better days awakened the residuum of pride remaining and brought the determination to remove his unwelcome presence from the scenes of former pleasures. He went West, but his hopes were blasted, and penniless, homeless, wretched, obliged to accept any kind of menial work in order to eke out a bare living, he wandered about until an overwhelming homesickness brought him back to Kentucky. There was, perhaps, a flickering intention to do better, to cut loose from the bands that bound him, but good resolutions were made only to be broken, and the cords of sin drawn tighter than ever.