Troy Town,
29 January, 1895.
"And then, as he set the bowl of goat's milk on the board, that
simple Tyrolean turned to me with a magnificent sweep of the hand,
and exclaimed--"
Ah, my dear Prince, if you could only tell me what he exclaimed, you
would restore a whole parish to its natural slumbers. For indeed he
is playing the deuce with our nights, here in Troy, that guileless
Tyrolean.
How trivial are the immediate causes of great events! On New Year's
Day our excellent Vicar, having bought himself a Whitaker's Almanack
for 1895, presented his last year's copy to the Working Men's Reading
Room. In itself you would have thought this action of the Vicar's
signified no more than a generous desire to keep his parishioners
abreast of the times. In effect it inaugurated the Great Temperance
Movement in Troy--a social revolution of which we are only now, after
four long weeks, beginning to see the end.
You must not, of course, suppose that we had never heard of
temperance before. No, Prince, we do not live so far from Abyssinia
as all _that_. In a general way we understood it to be a good thing,
and upon that ground (optimists that we are) believed its ultimate
success to be but a question of time. But I think I may say we never
regarded it as a pressing question--such as the reform of the House
of Lords, for instance. The general impression (I call it no more)
was that we should all be temperate sooner or later; possibly as the
next step after espousing our Deceased Wife's Sister.
Well, our Vicar laid his copy of the 1894 almanack on the
reading-room table at 11.30 a.m., or thereabouts, looked over the
local papers for a few minutes, and left the building at ten minutes
to noon. I get this information from Matthias James, our respected
pilot, who happened to be in the room, reading the _Shipping
Gazette_. It is confirmed by Mr. Hansombody and four or five other
members. At noon precisely, Mr. Rabling (our gasman and an earnest
Methodist) came in. His eye, as it wandered round in search of an
unoccupied newspaper, was arrested by the scarlet and green binding
of Whitaker. He picked the book up, opened it casually, and read:
The proof gallons of spirits distilled during the year ending
March 31st, 1893, were 10,691,576 in England, 20,107,077 in
Scotland, and 13,615,668 in Ireland. . . .
He tells me he was on the point of closing the book as a voluptuous
work of fiction, when a second and even more dazzling paragraph took
his eye.
The beer charged with duty in the United Kingdom was 32,104,320
barrels, 532,047 barrels of which were exported on drawback,
leaving 31,572,283 barrels for home consumption. There were
also 38,580 barrels of beer, and 1,653 barrels of spruce
imported from abroad.
And again:
The spirits "retained for home consumption" in the year were:--
rum, 4,268,438 gallons; brandy, 2,668,499 gallons; "other
sorts," 824,078 gallons. The home consumption of tobacco in the
year reached the total of 63,765,053 lbs. Though the tobacco
duty was reduced by 4d. a lb. in 1887-8, the annual yield
averages 1,336,240 pounds sterling more than it was ten years
ago. Smuggling still continues. . . .
Mr. Rabling was declaiming aloud by this time, and when he read out
about the smuggling, one or two of his audience gazed up at the
ceiling and agreed that the fellow had some of his facts right.
Old Pilot James added that the book could hardly be a work of
fiction, since the Vicar had left it on the table, and the Vicar was
not one to scatter lies except upon due deliberation.
Mr. Rabling left the room and walked straight up to the Vicarage, and
the Vicar assured him that the Customs Returns were almost as
accurate as if they had been prepared under a Conservative
Government. You must excuse these details, Prince. They are really
essential to the story.
At 12.55 Mr. Rabling (after a hasty dinner) handed across the counter
of the post-office a telegram addressed to his religious
superintendent at Plymouth. The message ran:
"Here anual consumption of beer over three milion barls.
Greatly distresd, Rabling."
The telegraph clerk kindly corrected all the errors of spelling in
the above, save one, which escaped him. By "here" Mr. Rabling had
intended "hear" (_scilicet_ "I hear," or "we hear"). The answer
arrived from Plymouth within an hour.
"Am sending missionary next train."
Thus our Temperance movement began. The missionary arrived before
set of sun, borrowed a chair from Mr. Rabling, carried it down to the
town quay and mounted it. A number of children at once gathered
round, in the belief that the stranger intended a tumbling
performance. The missionary eyed them and began, "Ah, if I can once
get hold of you tender little ones--" an infelicitous opening, which
scattered them yelling, convinced that the Bogey-man had come for
them at last. Upon this he changed his tone and called "O Gomorrah!"
aloud several times in a rich baritone voice, which fetched quite a
little crowd of elders around him from the reading-room, the
fish-market, the "King of Prussia" Inn, and other purlieus of the
quay.
Then the missionary gave us a most eloquent and inspiriting address,
in the course of which he mentioned that if all the beer annually
consumed in England were placed in bottles, and the bottles piled on
one another, it would reach within five hundred miles of the moon.
He asked us if this were not an intolerable state of things and a
disgrace to our boasted civilisation? Of course, there could be no
two questions about it. We are not unreasonable, down in Troy.
We only want a truth to be brought home to us. The missionary said
that if only a man would deny himself his morning glass, in eight
months he could buy himself a harmonium, besides being better in mind
and body. And he wound up by inviting us to attend a meeting in the
Town Hall that evening.
Well, at the evening performance he made us all feel so uncomfortable
that, as soon as it was over, we held an informal gathering in the
bar of the "King of Prussia," and decided that temperance must be
given a fair trial. The missionary had laid particular stress on the
necessity of taking the rising generation and taking them early.
So we decided to try it first upon the children, and see how it
worked.
The missionary was delighted with our zeal. (Our zeal has often
surprised and delighted strangers.) And he helped with a will.
Early next morning he organised what he called a "Little Drops of
Water League," and a juvenile branch of the Independent Order of Good
Templars, entitled the "Deeds not Words Lodge of Tiny Knights of
Abstinence." Each of these had its insignia. He sent us down the
patterns as soon as he returned to Plymouth, and within a week the
drapers' shops were full of little scarves and ribbons--white and
gold for the girls, pink and silver for the boys. By this time there
wasn't a child under fourteen but had taken the pledge; and as for
narrow blue ribbon, it could not be supplied fast enough. I heard
talk, too, of a juvenile fife-and-drum band; and the mothers had
already begun stitching banners for the processions. I tell you it
was pleasant, over a pipe and glass, to watch all these preparations,
and think how much better the world would be when the rising
generation came to take our places.
But, of course, no popular movement ever took root in our town
without a "tea-drink" or some such public function. And you may
judge of our delight when, on applying to the Vicar, we heard that he
had been talking to the Squire, Sir Felix Felix-Williams, and Sir
Felix would gladly preside. Sir Felix suggested the following
programme--(1) A Public Lecture in the Town Hall, with a Magic
Lantern to exhibit the results of excessive drinking. The missionary
would lecture, and Sir Felix would take the chair. (2) The lecture
over, the children were to form outside in procession and march up
behind the Town Band to Sir Felix's great covered tennis-court, where
tea would be spread.
I have mentioned the Magic Lantern and the Town Band, and must say a
word here on each. When the late Government set aside a sum of money
for Technical Instruction throughout the country, Sir Felix, who, as
our chief landlord, may be supposed to know best what we need,
decided that we needed to learn drawing. His idea was, by means of a
magic lantern, to throw the model upon a screen for the class to
copy; and in the heat of his enthusiasm he purchased two magic
lanterns at 25 pounds apiece before consulting the drawing-master,
who pointed out that a drawing-lesson, to be thorough, must be
conducted in a certain amount of light, whereas a magic lantern is
only effective in a dark room. So Sir Felix was left with two very
handsome lanterns on his hands, and burned for an opportunity of
turning them to account. Hence his alacrity in suggesting a lecture.
As for the Town Band, it was started last autumn with a view to
rendering our little town more attractive than ever to summer
visitors. The bandsmen have practised sedulously through the winter,
and are making great strides; but--if fault must be found--I am sorry
that our bandmaster, Mr. Patrick Sullivan (an Irishman), left the
purchase and selection of the music to his brother, who lives in
London and plays the piccolo at one of the music-halls. The result--
but you shall hear.
Punctually at 3.30 p.m. last Wednesday, Sir Felix drove down to the
Town Hall in his brougham. The body of the Hall was already packed,
and the missionary busy on the platform with his lanterns and white
sheet. Mr. Rabling and an assistant stood ready to close the
shutters and turn up the gas at the proper moment. The band waited
outside; and as Sir Felix alighted, mounted the steps and entered the
hall, bowing to right and left with the air of a real patriarch, the
musicians crashed out the tune of--
They all take after me,
Take whisky in their tea. . . .
Fortunately no one associated the tune with its words. Sir Felix
mounted the platform; and after sipping a little water (such was our
thoroughness that a glassful stood ready for each speaker), began to
introduce the lecturer, whose name he mispronounced. The missionary
was called Stubbs; and by what mnemonic process Sir Felix converted
this into Westmacott I have never been able to guess. However, for
purposes of introduction that afternoon Westmacott he was and
Westmacott he remained. Now Sir Felix, though not a very old man,
has a rambling habit of speech, and tends in public discourse to
forget alike the thread of his argument and the lapse of time.
Conceive then our delight on his announcing that he would confine
himself to a brief anecdote.
"The beauty of temperance," said Sir Felix, "was once brought home to
me very forcibly in rather peculiar circumstances. Many years ago I
was travelling afoot in the Tyrol, and chancing to pass by a
shepherd's cottage, turned aside to inquire my way. The good people
of the house, with native hospitality, pressed me to tarry an hour
and partake of their mid-day meal. I acceded. The fare, as you may
suppose, was simple. There was no intoxicating liquor. But never
shall I forget the gesture or the words of that simple shepherd as he
placed a bowl of goat's milk before me on the board. His words--a
short sentence only--left such an impression on my mind that to this
day I never seat myself at table without repeating them to myself.
Three times a day for over thirty years I have repeated those words
and seen in imagination the magnificent gesture which accompanied
them. The words of my simple shepherd were--"
(Here Sir Felix reproduced the simple shepherd's magnificent gesture,
and paused.)
"And then," he pursued, "as he set the bowl of goat's milk on the
board, that simple Tyrolean turned to me with a magnificent sweep of
the hand"--gesture repeated--"and exclaimed--"
Here followed a prolonged pause, and it slowly dawned upon the
audience that by a pardonable trick of memory Sir Felix was for the
moment unable to recall the words he had repeated thrice a day for
the last thirty years.
The situation was awkward. At the back of the platform Mr. Rabling
rose to it. He had once a tenor voice of moderate calibre which he
was used to exert publicly in the days of Penny Readings. And the
word "Tyrolean" now suggested to him a national song which had long
reposed in his musical cabinet at home. He leaned forward, screened
his mouth with one hand and whispered--
"Sir Felix--"
"Hey?" Sir Felix whipped round.
"Did a' say" (with sudden and piercing jodel) "_Lul-ul-i-e-tee!
Lul-ul-i-ee! Lul-ul_--"
Sir Felix stamped his foot; and I think we all felt glad for Rabling
at that moment that he held his cottage on a ninety-nine years'
lease. But the lecture was spoilt before it began. The missionary
piled his statistics to the moon, and turned down the gas, and showed
us "The Child: What will he become?" But we took no interest in that
question. The question for us was, What exactly did that simple
Tyrolese shepherd say to Sir Felix? And that is just what we have
been asking each other for a week past.
Sir Felix recovered himself towards the close of the address, and at
the close acknowledged our vote of thanks in a pleasant little
speech--in which, however, his Tyrolean friend was not so much as
alluded to. It was pretty, too, to see the Little Knights of
Abstinence afterwards, with their sashes and banners, marching uphill
after the band, like so many children of Hamelin after the Pied
Piper. Only, my dear Prince, what tune do you think the band was
playing? Why--
Come where the booze is cheaper,
Come where the pints hold more . . .!
The missionary, I am told, is already beginning to talk as if we
disappointed him. But this was certain to befall a man of one idea
in a place of so many varied interests.