by Ellen Wood
“As it used to be with me,” said Lord Temple. “You must do as I have done, William: confine yourself to water.”
“But a single glass of any thing can not hurt a man!”
“Not a temperate one, who does not ‘crave’ for more; but it hurts us, because we do. Bely upon it, William, that, for those who know not how to moderately use, and not abuse good gifts, water is the only safeguard. I remember Arthur making that remark to me years ago, as I now make it to you.”
“Do you never take wine?”
“Never,” replied Lord Temple. “Since I made my resolution, I have been enabled to keep it. I believe the chief help to my success was the abstaining absolutely; had I tampered with my resolve — just one glass of wine,’ ‘just one glass of spirits’ — I should probably have broken down. I could take a glass of wine now with impunity, if I chose, because I am become — both by inclination and habit — a sober man, and I know that I shall never relapse from it. But I do not choose. I like to set a good example; and I now prefer water.”
You really prefer it?”
“I do. I like it far better than wine or beer, or any other strong beverage you may please to think of. I like it for its own sake: use is second nature, you know.”
“Ay,” answered William; “there’s a true proverb— ‘Do what you should, that you may do what you like.’ Many a time have I rued the day that took my mother from me, for she would have caused me to drink water, as she did Arthur. The last Mrs. Danesbury taught us to dislike it, and to love beer and wine. Poor Robert and Lionel!”
“You would soon get to like it,” said Lord Temple. “Your taste for wine and beer would die out — as mine has done. Water, remember, is our natural beverage. Try it, William.”
“Perhaps I may,” he answered. “They will be ‘bitter draughts’ at first, though.”
“Then fancy it bitter beer,” laughed the viscount. “Fancy goes a great way in this world.”
Lord Temple left the room as he spoke, and Isabel moved close to her brother, and leaned upon his arm. Her tears were falling.
“Isabel! What is it?”
“Oh, William, I am overwhelmed with apprehension for you!” she said, laying her wet cheek against his. “Surely we have lost enough out of our family, and had enough misery. Let us, who remain, strive to live as we ought, that our days may be prolonged to the consolation of each other! We are but three now.”
“Yes,” he sadly answered, “we are but three. Seven once: three now.”
“Promise me, William; promise me that you will throw off this dreadful fascination! Do as Reginald has done. Become what he and Arthur are — a temperate man, in the strict sense of the term.”
He did not immediately speak.
“Once, near this house, years ago, it was just before I was leaving it, I prayed you to give me a promise: I now pray you again. Dearest William, for your own sake, I pray you.”
“I can not promise: I do not feel sure of myself, Isabel. I believe I said then I would try — and if I had not tried, and in some degree succeeded, I should, ere this, have been where our brothers are. I will say the same now. I will further try, earnestly try, to put a barrier between my inclination and this sin.”
Lord and Lady Temple returned to London, and things went on as usual at Eastborough, Arthur, now Mr. Danesbury, quietly subsiding into his father’s place, as the head of all things. The firm would remain as it always had done— “John Danesbury and Sons:” he would not alter that.
On a bright moonlight night, about a month subsequent to the burial of Mr. Danesbury, Arthur, who had been closely confined to the Works all day, thought he should be the better for a walk. Putting on his great-coat, he strolled toward the town.
It was Saturday night. Into the public-houses streamed the people, in at the swinging doors of the gin-shop, more brilliant than ever; men and boys (they could be called little better) rushing there to drink; while unhappy wives and mothers followed them, pleading in harsh or in piteous tones for some of their wages, ere the provision-shops should be shut. Mr. Danesbury stopped one man. He was one of their best workmen.
“Watts, how is it that you can not make yourselves comfortable at home? It is bad for you in every way, this night-drinking; bad for your pocket, and bad for your health. You have a good home: surely you might be content to stay in it.”
“Law bless ye, sir! You just step and look at it — if I might make so bold. There’s the wife all in a muddle, with a great tub afore the fire, a-washing of the children, and the children a-squalling, and the place all in a steam. After that, she sets on to wash the floor, and nobody won’t be able to put a foot on it till it’s dry. I can’t stop in that mess. But I only take a glass or so, sir; I’m not one of the first ones.’’
Arthur had nothing to reply. He went on his way, and the man entered the Cock-and-Bottle. All throughout his walk he saw nothing else; men pouring into the public- houses till they were full of company, whose uproarious mirth and singing reached his ears. He turned down the narrow, retired path which led to the church-yard and halted at its gate. The night was calm, the scene all peace. The moonlight flickered on the opposite hills, bringing out their light and shade, bringing out the view of his own home; and it rested also on the white tombstones close to him, though the old church, in their midst, looked cold and gray. He opened the gate, and approached the large white marble tomb of the Danesburys, the two more recent deaths just recorded on it. Arthur read the inscriptions, all of them, one by one; his own mother’s was the first, and his father’s was the last. He leaned his hands upon its iron railings and mused.
His thoughts ran, naturally enough, upon the vice of intemperance, and its share in the death of those lying beneath him. Look at what it had done for them! His mother, recalled from her pleasant visit by the drunken mistake of Glisson, sent the same night to her death through the drunken agency of the turnpike man; Glisson herself who also lay near, a victim to its effects; Robert, the next buried, what Arthur shuddered to think of, both in life and in death; Mrs. Danesbury, hastened thither by her sons’ conduct; Lionel just gone, a burden released from the world; and his father’s broken heart, laid there before its time!
“If it has brought this amount of evil into one home,” thought Arthur, “what must it bring to the world at large? Hundreds are dying daily of it — homes are rendered hells — families are scattered. This very night, in this town close to me, it is raging unchecked. My own workmen are yielding to it now; making themselves into brutes — impoverishing their means — wronging their wives and children! How can it be dealt with?”
How, indeed? Many a one is asking the question as anxiously as did Arthur Danesbury. An earnest spirit has been abroad of late years, striving to grapple with the evil; and the busy and careless world, who give not their thoughts to these things, would be astonished to learn the good effected by it in connection with the exertions of the Temperance Societies. May they go on, and prosper — may all generous aid be afforded them — and may they find their reward in the fruits they so largely bring forth!
But the good they have accomplished, though astonishingly great, is but little compared with what has yet to be done; for the vice is as a many-headed monster, who has too long been making fierce way: and it equally behoves individuals, families, and communities, to take the matter up with a will, and give a helping hand.
All these, and many more such reflections, passed through the mind of Arthur Danesbury, as he stood there in the moonlight, leaning over the tomb. How should he deal with the evil; he, in his little sphere at Eastborough? A responsibility was upon him, and was making itself heard: a large body of men were wearing out their lives in his service, receiving four wages in requital, it is true, but he felt that he was not the less responsible; that he might owe them something else. How to attempt, or what to attempt, he knew not yet; time, and thought, and sound deliberation, must be given to dealing with the evil: to check it wholly, he feared he never should, but he mi
ght be ask to do something.
Circumstances were against him, and agents his men, in the prevalence of beer-shops, and the low price of gin. He could prevent neither: the Legislature allowed both. Liquor was plentiful every where; and, as to the places where it was sold, they did, and would, abound. If all the present distillers and large brewers shut up their concerns to-morrow, conscience-stricken at the nature of their trade, the source of their wealth, fresh ones would start the next day in their places. If Arthur himself were rich as the Lydian King, Croesus, and went, money in hand, and bought out the gin-palace man, and the landlords of the public-houses, and the. keepers of the beer-shops, and closed the places forever, it would only lead to fresh ones being forth-with started at the next doors. Unless the world could be turned into a second Eutopia, and men worked for love and not for gain, people would be found (and no lack of them) to distil gin, and brew beer, and keep public-houses, and preside in gin-palaces, the law permitting it. Under the present state of affairs, therefore, that was not the way in which Arthur Danesbury could deal with the evil. He knew also that it would be worse than useless to attempt a forced conversion. To say to the men, “You must leave off these debased habits, and take to better,” would fall on inattentive ears — the necessity for the conversion must previously he aroused in their own minds. They must first be as men awaking out of sleep, to find within themselves the higher motive for well-doing. Not only the more humble one of assuring peace in this, their transitory life; but peace also for the one above. They must be led to this gradually, perhaps insensibly; not by violent measures, but gently, step by step. Before any thing could be done, it would be necessary to break through their present habits; to make them more moral, more thoughtful; to impart to them somewhat of enlightenment. Raise the mind, and in due time, the spirit will follow.
Mr. Danesbury remained long in deep deliberation, pacing the church-yard; dim, undefined plans presenting them-selves to his thoughts. He was lost to outward things, when footsteps were heard in the lane, and he emerged from the gate; not caring, possibly, to be seen stalking about amid the grave-stones, like a wandering ghost. The footsteps proved to be old Thomas Harding’s.
“Is it you, Harding? What brings you here?”
“I wanted to find you, sir, and was going the nearest way to Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s; for I have been to your house, and they thought you might have gone there.”
“What is it?” asked Mr. Danesbury.
“Brown has been to me again, sir,” replied Harding; “he is at my house now, and I can’t get rid of him, praying and entreating that he may be taken on once more. He says hell never transgress again, but if he can’t get an answer to-night, he’ll be off with morning light, and enlist for a soldier. He says he is starving. I thought it right to come and mention it to you, sir, lest he should go. What is to be done?”
“His offense was very bad,” said Mr. Danesbury, “but — he has a wife and child, poor things. Give him another chance, Harding. He may come on Monday morning.”
“I thought perhaps you would, sir. I’m sure you are very lenient to them. Brown says he had .been drinking when he did it, and was not in his senses.”
“No doubt,” cried Mr. Danesbury: “drink is the cause of most bad actions. Harding, my mind was directed to this very point, when you came up. To-night, as I walked through the streets, the men — our men — were at the public-houses in swarms, drinking away their intellects and their wages. Something ought to be attempted to check it — something shall be.”
“Who by, sir!”
“By me. I feel that the responsibility rests upon me.”
“Nothing in the world can be done, sir, let your will be ever so good. There are the public-houses, and the men will go to them.’’
“Yes, I see great difficulties, even in the attempt.”
“When a man has been at work all day, he wants some sort of amusement or recreation, sir,” resumed Thomas Harding. “He can’t get that at home — speaking of the generality of the men. Their wives are bad managers, the room is not comfortable, the fire’s low, or out. There’s no society for them there, except a scolding wife and crying children.”
“Nearly the very words that Watts answered me with to-night,” returned Mr. Danesbury. “I met him going into the Cock-and-Bottle, and told him he would be better at home. Every thing was uncomfortable there, he replied, and he was driven out.”
“It is so,” answered Thomas Harding. “Some few are differently situated, have superior women for wives, who make home a pleasant place for them to return to; and a sprinkling are gifted with intellect and thought beyond their station, and have their evening pursuits, their books, and their newspapers, and such like; but, take the workmen as a body, sir, their home is the public-house when the day’s work is done. They have no resources within themselves — even if home were what it ought to be, they would be dull in it — out they must and will go: and there’s no hope but what they always will go out. They might be chained in, but they’ll never stop in otherwise: no, they would not for you, sir, much as they look up to you. Some of them, I truly believe, would lay down their lives to serve you, Mr. Arthur, but you’ll never get them to stop in doors after work. Look at the Literary Institution that your good father gave himself such pains to set up, hoping it might keep the men from the tap-rooms. Who goes to it? There’s a good room for them, well lighted, and warmed in winter, books, and what not; but do they take advantage of it? No, sir; it’s deserted; there’s not half a dozen in it, I’ll be bound to answer, any night all through the year, taking one night with another.”
“If we could but close some of the public-houses!” exclaimed Mr. Danesbury. “Since I have sat on the bench, I have been chary of granting licenses, but my brother magistrates are less so, and my voice is only one among many. I wish I could shut up that gin-shop.”
“Sir,” said Harding — and his words only carried out some of his master’s previous thoughts—” if you shut up that, another would open. I was talking last week to the man who keeps it, and told him it was doing harm, for its blaze of light enticed people in to drink. He answered — he is a civil, decent man, in spite of his trade — that it was not the traffic he followed by choice; but that, if he gave it up, a hundred would be found ready to drop into it, so he might as well keep it myself, and pocket the profits: folks did drink, and would drink, to the end of the chapter. And so they will, sir.”
“Ay; although they know the curse it is to them.”
“It is a curse, both to rich and poor,” returned Thomas Harding. “I saw Mr. William in one of the houses as I came along,” added the old man, lowering his voice.
“No!” uttered Mr. Danesbury.
“I did, sir. I went to the Bam to ask why my Saturday’s paper had not been left, and the waiter opened the door of the gentlemen’s parlour as I stood there, and I saw Mr. William inside, with a steaming glassful before him. My heart stood still: I could have found in it to go and pull him out: I have had such hopes of him lately.”
Arthur could not answer; he was too pained to answer. He also had been cherishing hopes of his brother.
“Well, sir, I’ll go back to Brown, and tell him,” cried Harding. “Good-night, sir.”
He turned to retrace his steps up the narrow lane toward the town; and Arthur Danesbury slowly pursued the path, which lay round and round the church-yard.
CHAPTER XXIII.
OVERCOMING.
William Danesbury was alone in his drawing-room, on the evening mentioned in the last chapter, when a servant opened the door to introduce a visitor.
“Mr. Bell, sir.”
William had his head bent over some plans and drawings on the table, in which he was making corrections. He turned to receive his guest.
It was a large farmer residing near Eastborough. The Danesburys were executing some orders of his for agricultural implements, and he had come to inquire on what day one of the machines could be delivered to him. William did not know,
but said the overlooker of the department might be able to tell.
“Where can I find him?” asked the farmer.
“He lives close by. I will go with you. Will you take any thing first?”
“Well, I don’t care if I do take a glass of brandy and water, to keep the cold out on my ride home,” was Mr. Bell’s answer.
William was vexed at this. Since the conversation with Lord Temple, now three weeks ago, he had kept to water, and did not much relish the temptation that brandy on his own table would induce. However, there was no help for it, and he went to the cellar and brought up a bottle of brandy, which happened to be the last he had in the house. The servant appeared with hot water and glasses.
“Hey! don’t you drink yourself?” cried the farmer, perceiving that, though he was sipping his, William took none.
“You must excuse me to-night. I do not feel well.”
William sat by, the fumes of the brandy under his nose, and his very lips watering for it. He took out his hand-kerchief and held it to his mouth, with his elbow on the table, his face resolutely turned from the bottle. The inward strife was great; far greater than the reader, if he be a man of sobriety, can picture. The temptation was sorely close to him; hardly, by his utmost will, could he keep his hands from stretching out for the brandy, and their veins tingled with imposed self-restraint.
A perspiration broke out over his head and face. Could he hold out? “Lord, be thou my helper!” he inwardly breathed, “for of my own strength I can not withstand.”
The farmer mixed another glass, and, when he had finished it, rose and said he was ready. William put the cork in the bottle and placed it on the sideboard, not having touched the brandy, and went out with Mr. Bell. So far, victory.
The overlooker was not at home; he was gone to the “Ram,” to take his glass and smoke his pipe. Very much indeed did William Danesbury dislike to accompany Mr. Bell there; but, again, there was no help for it; for it would have been neither courteous nor business-like to suffer him to proceed alone.