THE seed and the harvest are alike in quality. Between cause and
effect there is an unchanging and eternal relation. Men never find
grapes on thorns nor figs on thistles.
As an aggregate man, society has no escape from this law. It must
reap as it sows. If its customs be safe and good, its members, so
far as they are influenced by these customs, will be temperate,
orderly and virtuous; but if its tone be depraved and its customs
evil or dangerous, moral and physical ruin must; in too many sad
cases be the inevitable result.
It is needless to press this view, for it is self-evident and no one
calls it in question. Its truth has daily and sorrowful confirmation
in the wan faces and dreary eyes and wrecks of a once noble and
promising manhood one meets at every turn.
The thorn and the thistle harvest that society reaps every year is
fearfully great, and the seed from which too large a portion of this
harvest comes is its drinking customs. Men of observation and
intelligence everywhere give this testimony with one consent. All
around us, day and night, year by year, in palace and hovel, the
gathering of this sad and bitter harvest goes on--the harvest of
broken hearts and ruined lives. And still the hand of the sower is
not stayed. Refined and lovely women and men of low and brutal
instincts, church members and scoffers at religion, stately
gentlemen and vulgar clowns, are all at work sowing the baleful seed
that ripens, alas! too quickly its fruit of woe. The _home saloon_
vies with the common licensed saloon in its allurements and
attractions, and men who would think themselves degraded by contact
with those who for gain dispense liquor from a bar have a sense of
increased respectability as they preside over the good wine and pure
spirits they offer to their guests in palace homes free of cost.
We are not indulging in forms of rhetoric. To do so would only
weaken the force of our warning. What we have written is no mere
fancy work. The pictures thrown upon our canvas with all the power
of vivid portraiture that we possess are but feeble representations
of the tragic scenes that are enacted in society year by year, and
for which every member of society who does not put his hand to the
work of reform is in some degree responsible.
We are not developing a romance, but trying, as just said, to give
from real life some warning pictures. Our task is nearly done. A few
more scenes, and then our work will be laid for the present aside.
There are men who never seem to comprehend the lesson of events or
to feel the pressure of personal responsibility. They drift with the
tide, doing as their neighbors do, and resting satisfied. The
heroism of self-sacrifice or self-denial is something to which they
cannot rise. Nothing is farther from their ambition than the role of
a reformer. Comfortable, self-indulgent, placid, they move with the
current and manage to keep away from its eddies. Such a man was Mr.
Birtwell. He knew of some of the disasters that followed so closely
upon his grand entertainment, but refused to connect therewith any
personal responsibility. It was unfortunate, of course, that these
things should have happened with him, but he was no more to blame
for them than if they had happened with his neighbor across the way.
So he regarded the matter. But not so Mrs. Birtwell. As we have
seen, a painful sense of responsibility lay heavily upon her heart.
The winter that followed was a gay one, and many lag entertainments
were given. The Birtwells always had a party, and this party was
generally the event of the season, for Mr. Birtwell liked _eclat_
and would get it if possible. Time passed, and Mrs. Birtwell, who
had sent regrets to more than half the entertainments to which they
received invitations said nothing.
"When are we going to have our party?" asked Mr. Birtwell of his
wife as they sat alone one evening. He saw her countenance change.
After a few moments she replied in a low but very firm and decided
voice:
"Whenever we can have it without wine."
"Then we'll never have it," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, in considerable
excitement.
"It will be better so," returned his wife, "than again to lay
stumbling-blocks at the feet of our neighbors."
There came a sad undertone in her voice that her husband did not
fail to perceive.
"We don't agree in this thing," said Mr. Birtwell, with some
irritation of manner.
"Then will it not be best to let the party go over until we can
agree? No harm can come of that, and harm might come, as it did last
year, from turning our house into a drinking-saloon."
The sting of these closing words was sharp. It was not the first
time Mr. Birtwell had heard his wife use them, and they never failed
to shock his fine sense of respectability.
"For Heaven's sake, Margaret," he broke out, in a passion he could
not control, "don't say that again! It's an outrage. You'll give
mortal offence if you use such language."
"It is best to call things by their right names," replied Mrs.
Birtwell, in no way disturbed by her husband's weak anger. "As names
signify qualities, we should be very careful how we deceive others
by the use of wrong ones. To call a lion a lamb might betray a blind
or careless person into the jaws of a ferocious monster, or to speak
of the fruit of the deadly nightshade as a cherry might deceive a
child into eating it."
"You are incorrigible," said Mr. Birtwell, his anger subsiding. It
never went very deep, for his nature was shallow.
"No, not incorrigible, but right," returned Mrs. Birtwell.
"Then we are not to have a party this winter?"
"I did not say so. On the contrary, I am ready to entertain our
friends, but the party I give must be one in which no wine or brandy
is served."
"Preposterous!" ejaculated Mr. Birtwell. "We'd make ourselves the
laughing-stock of the city."
"Perhaps not," returned his wife.
Mr. Birtwell shook his head and shut his mouth tightly:
"There's no use in talking about it if the thing can't be done
right, it can't be done at all."
"So say I. Still, I would do it right and show society a better way
if you were brave enough to stand by my side. But as you are not,
our party must go by default this winter."
Mrs. Birtwell smiled faintly to soften the rebuke of her words. They
had reached this point in their conversation when Mr. Elliott, their
clergyman, called. His interest in the Home for inebriates had
increased instead of abating, and he now held the place of an active
member in the board of directors. Mrs. Birtwell had, months before,
given in her adhesion to the cause of reform, and the board of lady
managers, who had a close supervision of the internal arrangements
of the Home, had few more efficient workers.
In the beginning Mr. Birtwell had "pooh-poohed" at his wife's
infatuation, as he called it, and prophesied an early collapse of
the whole affair. "The best thing to do with a drunkard," he would
say, with mocking levity, "is to let him die. The sooner he is out
of the way, the better for himself and society." But of late he had
given the matter a more respectful consideration. Still, he would
have his light word and pleasant banter both with his wife and Mr.
Elliott, who often dropped in to discuss with Mrs. Birtwell the
interests of the Home.
"Just in the nick of time," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, smiling, as he
took the clergyman's hand.
"My wife and I have had a disagreement--we quarrel dreadfully, you
know--and you must decide between us."
"Indeed! What's the trouble now?" said Mr. Elliott, looking from one
to the other.
"Well, you see, we've been discussing the party question, and are at
daggers' points."
The light which had spread over Mr. Elliott's countenance faded off
quickly, and Mr. Birtwell saw it assume a very grave aspect. But he
kept on:
"You never heard anything so preposterous. Mrs. Birtwell actually
proposes that we give a coldwater-and-lemonade entertainment. Ha!
ha!"
The smile he had expected to provoke by this sally did not break
into the clergyman's face.
"But I say," Mr. Birtwell added, "do the thing right, or don't do it
all."
"What do you call right?" asked Mr. Elliott.
"The way it is done by other people--as we did it last year, for
instance."
"I should be sorry to see last year's entertainment repeated if like
consequences must follow," replied Mr. Elliott, becoming still more
serious.
Mr. Birtwell showed considerable annoyance at: this.
"I have just come from a visit to your friend Mrs. Voss," said the
clergyman.
"How is she?" Mrs. Birtwell asked, anxiously.
"I do not think she can last much longer," was replied.
Tears came into Mrs. Birtwell's eyes and fell over her cheeks.
"A few days at most--a few hours, maybe--and she will be at rest.
She spoke of you very tenderly, and I think would like to see you."
"Then I will go to her immediately," said Mrs. Birtwell, rising.
"You must excuse me, Mr. Elliott. I will take the carriage and go
alone," she added, glancing toward her husband.
The two men on being left alone remained silent for a while. Mr.
Birtwell was first to speak.
"I have always felt badly," he said, "about the death of Archie
Voss. No blame attaches to us of course, but it was unfortunate that
he had been at our house."
"Yes, very unfortunate," responded the clergyman. Something in his
voice as well as in his manner awakened an uncomfortable feeling in
the mind of Mr. Birtwell.
They were silent again, neither of them seeming at his ease.
"I had hoped," said Mr. Elliott, breaking at length this silence,
"to find you by this time over upon our side."
"The cold-water side, you mean?" There was perceptible annoyance in
Mr. Birtwell's tone.
"On the side of some reform in our social customs. Why can't you
join with your excellent wife in taking the initiative? You may
count on me to endorse the movement and give it my countenance and
support."
"Thank you, Mr. Elliott, but I'm not your man," returned Mr.
Birtwell. He spoke with decision. "I have no desire to be counted in
with reformers."
"Think of the good you might do."
"I am not a philanthropist."
"Then think of the evil you might prevent."
"The good or the evil resulting from my action, take which side I
may, will be very small," said Mr. Birtwell, with an indifference of
manner that showed his desire to drop the subject. But Mr. Elliott
was only leading the way for some plainer talk, and did not mean to
lose his opportunity.
"It is an error," he said, "to make light of our personal influence
or the consequences that may flow from what we do. The hand of a
child is not too weak to hold the match that fires a cannon. When
evil elements are aggregated, the force required to release them is
often very small. We may purpose no wrong to our neighbor in the
indulgence of a freedom that leads him into fiery temptation; but if
we know that our freedom must of necessity do this, can we escape
responsibility if we do not deny ourselves?"
"It is easy to ask questions and to generalize," returned Mr.
Birtwell, not hiding the annoyance he felt.
"Shall I come down to particulars and deal in facts?" asked Mr.
Elliott.
"If you care to do so."
"I have some facts--very sad and sorrowful ones. You may or may not
know them--at least not all. But you should know them, Mr.
Birtwell."
There was no escape now.
"You half frighten me, Mr. Elliott. What are you driving at?"
"I need not refer," said the clergyman, "to the cases of Archie Voss
and Mr. Ridley."
Mr. Birtwell raised his hands in deprecation.
"Happily," continued Mr. Elliott, "Mr. Ridley has risen from his
fall, and now stands firmer, I trust, than ever, and farther away
from the reach of temptation, resting not in human but in divine
strength. Archie is in heaven, where before many days his mother
will join him."
"Why are you saying this?" demanded Mr. Birtwell. "You are going too
far." His face had grown a little pale.
"I say it as leading to something more," replied the clergyman. "If
there had been no more bitter fruit than this, no more lives
sacrificed, it would have been sad enough. But--"
"Sir, you are trifling," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, starting from his
chair. "I cannot admit your right to talk to me in this way."
"Be calm, my dear sir," answered Mr. Elliott, laying his hand upon
his companion. "I am not trifling with you. As your warm personal
friend as well as your spiritual counselor, I am here to-night to
give a solemn admonition, and I can best do this through the
communication of facts--facts that stand on record for ever
unchangeable whether you know them or not. Better that you should
know them."
Mr. Birtwell sat down, passive now, his hand grasping the arms of
his chair like one bracing himself for a shock.
"You remember General Abercrombie?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what has become of him?"
"No. I heard something about his having been dismissed from the
army."
"Did you hear the cause?"
"It was drunkenness, I believe."
"Yes, that was the cause. He was a fine officer and a man of high
character, but fell into habits of intemperance. Seeing himself
drifting to certain ruin, he made a vigorous effort to reform his
life. Experience told him that his only safety lay in complete
abstinence, and this rule he adopted. For many months he remained
firm. But he fell at your house. The odor of wine that pervaded all
the air and stirred within him the long-sleeping appetite, the
freedom he saw around him, the invitations that met him from
distinguished men and beautiful women, the pressure of a hundred
influences upon his quickened desires, bore him down at last, and he
fell.
"I heard the whole sad story to-day," continued Mr. Elliott. He did
not even attempt to struggle up again, but abandoned himself to his
fate. Soon after, he was removed from the command of this department
and sent off to the Western frontier, and finally court-martialed
and dismissed from the army.
"To his wife, who was deeply attached to him, General Abercrombie
was when sober one of the kindest and most devoted of husbands, but
a crazy and cruel fiend when drunk. It is said that on the night he
went home from your house last winter strange noises and sudden
cries of fear were heard in their room, and that Mrs. Abercrombie
when seen next morning looked as if she had just come from a bed of
sickness. She accompanied him to the West, but I learned today that
since his dismissal from the army his treatment of her has been so
outrageous and cruel that she has had to leave him in fear of her
life, and is now with her friends, a poor broken-hearted woman. As
for the general, no one seems to know what has become of him."
"And the responsibility of all this you would lay at my door?" said
Mr. Birtwell, in a husky voice, through which quivered a tone of
anger. "But I reject your view of the case entirely. General
Abercrombie fell because he had no strength of purpose and no
control of his appetite. He happened to trip at my house--that is
all. He would have fallen sooner or later somewhere."
"Happened to trip! Yes, that is it, Mr. Birtwell; you use the right
word. He tripped at your house. But who laid the stone of stumbling
in his path? Suppose there had been no wine, served to your guests,
would he have stumbled on that fatal night? If there had been no
wine served, would Archie Voss have lost his way in the storm or
perished in the icy waters? No, my friend, no; and if there had been
no wine served at your board that night, three human lives which
have, alas! been hidden from us by death's eclipse would be shedding
light and warmth upon many hearts now sorrowful and desolate. Three
human lives, and a fourth just going out. There is responsibility,
and neither you nor I can escape it, Mr. Birtwell, if through
indifference or design we permit ourselves to become the instruments
of such dire calamities."
Mr. Birtwell had partly risen from his chair in making the weak
defence to which this was a reply, but now sunk back with an
expression that was half bewilderment and half terror on his
countenance.
"In Heaven's name, Mr. Elliott, what does all this mean?" he cried.
"Three lives and a fourth going out, and the responsibility laid at
my door!"
"It is much easier to let loose an evil power than to stay its
progress," said Mr. Elliott. "The near and more apparent effects we
may see, rarely the remote and secondary. But we know that the
action of all forces, good or evil, is like that of expanding
wave-circles, and reaches far beyond, our sight. It has done so in
this case. Yes, Mr. Birtwell, three lives, and a fourth now
flickering like an expiring candle.
"I would spare you all this if I dared, if I could be
conscience-clear," continued Mr. Elliott. "But I would be faithless
to my duty if I kept silent. You know the sad case of Mrs. Carlton?"
"You don't mean to lay that, too, at my door!" exclaimed Mr.
Birtwell.
"Not directly; it was one of the secondary effects. I had a long
conversation with Dr. Hillhouse to-day. His health has failed
rapidly for some months past, and he is now much broken down. You
know that he performed the operation which cost Mrs. Carlton her
life? Well, the doctor has never got over the shock of that
catastrophe. It has preyed upon his mind ever since, and is one of
the causes of his impaired health."
"I should call that a weakness," returned Mr. Birtwell. "He did his
best. No one is safe from accidents or malign influences. I never
heard that Mr. Carlton blamed him."
"Ah, these malign influences!" said the clergyman. "They meet us
everywhere and hurt us at every turn, and yet not one of them could
reach and affect our lives if some human hand did not set them free
and send them forth among men to, hurt and to destroy. And now let
me tell you of the interview I had with Dr. Hillhouse to-day. He has
given his consent, but with this injunction: we cannot speak of it
to others."
"I will faithfully respect his wishes," said Mr. Birtwell.
"This morning," resumed Mr. Elliott, "I received a note from the
doctor, asking me to call and see him. He was much depressed, and
said he had long wanted to have a talk with me about something that
weighed heavily on his mind. Let me give you his own words as nearly
as I am able to remember them. After some remarks about personal
influence and our social responsibilities, he said:
"'There is one thing, Mr. Elliott, in which you and I and a great
many others I could name have not only been derelict of duty, but
serious wrongdoers. There is an evil in society that more than all
others is eating out its life, and you and I have encouraged that
evil even by our own example, calling it innocent, and so leading
the weak astray and the unwary into temptation.'
"I understood what he meant, and the shock of his including
accusation, his 'Thou art the man,' sent a throb of pain to my
heart. That I had already seen my false position and changed front
did not lessen the shock, for I was only the more sensitive to pain.
"'Happily for you, Mr. Elliott,' he went on, 'no such bitter fruit
has been plucked by your hands as by mine, and I pray God that it
may never be. For a long time I have carried a heavy load here'--he
drew his hand against his breast--'heavier than I have strength to
bear. Its weight is breaking me down. It is no light thing, sir, to
feel at times that you are a murderer.'
"He shivered, and there passed across his face a look of horror. But
it was gone in a moment, though an expression of suffering remained.
"'My dear doctor.' I interposed, 'you have permitted yourself to
fall into a morbid state. This is not well. You are overworked and
need change and relaxation.'
"'Yes,' he replied, a little mournfully 'I am overworked and morbid
and all that, I know, and I must have change and relaxation or I
shall die. Ah, if I could get rid of this heavy weight!' He laid his
hand upon his breast again, and drew a deep inspiration. 'But that
is impossible. I must tell you all about it, but place upon you at
the same time an injunction of silence, except in the case of one
man, Mr. Spencer Birtwell. He is honorable and he should know, and I
can trust him.
"'You remember, of course, the entertainment he gave last winter and
some, of the unhappy effects that came of it, but you do not know
all. I was there and enjoyed the evening, and you were there, Mr.
Elliott, and I am afraid led some into temptation through our
freedom. Forgive me for saying so, but the truth is best.
"'Wine was free as water--good wine, tempting to the taste. I meant
to be very guarded, to take only a glass or two, for on the next day
I had a delicate and dangerous operation to perform, and needed
steady nerves. But the wine was good, and my one or two glasses only
made way for three or four. The temptation of the hour were too much
for my habitual self-restraint. I took a glass of wine with you, Mr.
Elliott, after I had already taken more than was prudent under the
circumstances another with Mr. Birtwell, another with General
Abercrombie--alas for him! he fell that night so low that he has
never risen again--and another with some one else. It was almost
impossible to put a restraint upon yourself. Invitation and
solicitation met you at every turn. The sphere of self-indulgence
was so strong that it carried almost every one a little too far, and
many into excess and debauch. I was told afterward that at a late
hour the scene in the supper-room was simply disgraceful. Boys and
men, and sadder still, young women, were more than half drunk, and
behaved most unseemly. I can believe this, for I have seen such
things too often.
"'As I went out from Mr. Birtwell's that night, and the cold,
snow-laden air struck into my face on crossing the pavement to my
carriage, cooling my blood and clearing my brain, I thought of Mrs.
Carlton and the life that had been placed in my hands, and a feeling
of concern dropped into my heart. A night's indulgence in
wine-drinking was a poor preparation for the work before me, in
which a clear head and steady nerves were absolutely essential. How
would I be in the morning? The question thrust itself into my
thoughts and troubled me. My apprehensions were not groundless.
Morning found me with unsteady nerves. But this was not all. From
the moment I left my bed until within half an hour of the time when
the operation was to begin, I was under much excitement and deeply
anxious about two of my patients, Mrs. Voss and Mrs. Ridley, both
dangerously ill, Mrs. Voss, as you know, in consequence of her alarm
about her son, and Mrs. Ridley--But you have heard all about her
case and its fatal termination, and understand in what way it was
connected with the party at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's. The consequence
of that night's excesses met me at every turn. The unusual calls,
the imminent danger in which I found Mrs. Ridley and the almost
insane demands made upon me by her despairing husband, all conspired
to break down my unsteady nerves and unfit me for the work I had to
do. When the time came, there was only one desperate expedient left,
and that was the use of a strong stimulant, under the effect of
which I was able to extract the tumor from Mrs. Carlton's neck.
"'Alas for the too temporary support of my stimulant! It failed me
at the last moment. My sight was not clear nor my hand steady as I
tied the small arteries which had been cut during the operation. One
of these, ligated imperfectly, commenced bleeding soon after I left
the house. A hurried summons reached me almost immediately on my
return home, and before I had steadied my exhausted nerves with a
glass of wine. Hurrying back, I found the wound bleeding freely.
Prompt treatment was required. Ether was again administered. But you
know the rest, Mr. Elliott. It is all too dreadful, and I cannot go
over it again. Mrs. Carlton fell another victim to excess in wine.
This is the true story. I was not blamed by the husband. The real
cause of the great calamity that fell upon him he does not know to
this day, and I trust will never know. But I have not since been
able to look steadily into his dreary eyes. A guilty sense of wrong
oppresses me whenever I come near him. As I said before, this thing
is breaking me down. It has robbed me, I know, of many years of
professional usefulness to which I had looked forward, and left a
bitter thought in my mind and a shadow on my feelings that can never
pass away.
"'Mr. Elliott,' he continued, 'you have a position of sacred trust.
Your influence is large. Set yourself, I pray you, against the evil
which has wrought these great disasters. Set yourself against the
dangerous self-indulgence called "moderate drinking." It is doing
far more injury to society than open drunkenness, more a
hundred--nay, a thousand--fold. If I had been a drunkard, no such
catastrophe as this I have mentioned could have happened in my
practice, for Mr. Carlton would not then have trusted his wife in my
hands. My drunkenness would have stood as a warning against me. But
I was a respectable moderate drinker, and could take my wine without
seeming to be in any way affected by it. But see how it betrayed me
at last.'"
Mr. Birtwell had been sitting during this relation with his head
bowed upon his breast. When Mr. Elliott ceased speaking, he raised
himself up in a slow, weary sort of way, like one oppressed by
fatigue or weak from illness.
"Dreadful, dreadful!" he ejaculated. "I never dreamed of anything
like this. Poor Carlton!"
"You see," remarked Mr. Elliott, "how easily a thing like this may
happen. A man cannot go to one of these evening entertainments and
indulge with anything like the freedom to which he is invited and be
in a condition to do his best work on the day following. Some of
your iron-nerved men may claim an exemption here, but we know that
all over-stimulation must leave the body in some degree unstrung
when the excitement dies out, and they suffer loss with the rest--a
loss the aggregate of which makes itself felt in the end. We have to
think for a moment only to satisfy ourselves that the wine-and
brandy-drinking into which men and women are enticed at
dinner-parties and fashionable entertainments is a fruitful source
of evil. The effect upon body and mind after the indulgence is over
is seen in headaches, clouded brain, nervous irritation, lassitude,
inability to think, and sometimes in a general demoralization of
both the physical and mental economy. Where there is any chronic or
organic ailment the morbid condition is increased and sometimes
severe attacks of illness follow.
"Are our merchants, bankers, lawyers, doctors and men holding
responsible trusts as fit for duty after a social debauch--is the
word too strong?--as before? If we reflect for a moment--you see,
Mr. Birtwell, in what current my thoughts have been running--it must
be clear to us that after every great entertainment such as you and
other good citizens are in the habit of giving many business and
professional mistakes must follow, some of them of a serious
character. All this crowds upon and oppresses me, and my wonder is
that it did not long ago so crowd upon and oppress me. It seems as
though scales had dropped suddenly from my eyes and things I had
never seen before stood out in clearest vision."