GOOD RESOLUTIONS; A TEMPTER, AND A FALL.
On the morning we introduced him to the reader he took the train
to Charlotte and secured a berth on the steamer _Corinthian_
for a port on the Canadian side, and as it would not start for an
hour after he arrived, he thought he would endeavor to compose his
perturbed mind by a quiet walk up the river. For in his sober
moments he suffered intensely from the "pricks of an outraged
conscience," and more than once he had been tempted to take his
own life, but the thought of wife and children had restrained him
from the rash and cowardly act. It may be, there was intermingled
with that the thought, as Shakespeare says--
"Which makes cowards of us all,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of."
He now resolved, God helping him, he would never drink again, but
he would establish a home in the strange land whither he was
journeying, and live a sober, industrious life. But even as he
made these resolves his craving, burning appetite came tempting
him; and as he strove against it, he shut his teeth and knit his
brow, and involuntarily clenched his hand as if about to struggle
with a mortal foe, and stamped his foot as he hissed through his
clenched teeth, "I will be free." Ah, Richard! don't begin to
boast before you have gained the victory, depend more upon God
than self, you surely need his aid, for here comes a tempter.
"Hallo, Ashton, is that you? What is the matter with you? Why, one
would suppose you had an attack of the blues. At what were you
glaring so fiercely? You look as if you had a live Fenian before
you and was striking for the Old Land with a determination to give
no quarter. How came you here, and whither are you bound?" And the
speaker, with a quizzical smile upon his face, which half
concealed and half revealed an underplay of devilish mockery, put
his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of Ashton, and then grasped
him by the hand and gave it a hearty shake. But if a good judge of
human nature had been by, he would have concluded his manner was
assumed for the occasion--that he was simply acting, and was a
failure at the role he had assumed.
I have not given to the reader the expletives with which he
adorned his conversation, nor do I intend to do so, for though he,
like others who indulge in the habit of swearing, may have thought
it was both ornamental and emphatic, I don't think so. Besides, I
have hopes that these pages may be read by the young, and I do not
wish to give, even in the conversations which I may transcribe,
anything that is profane or impure; for if I did I might inoculate
their young minds with an evil virus, which I would not knowingly
do.
This person, who now accosted Ashton, was the one who acted imp to
his satanic majesty in leading him to his last fall, and here he
was again to tempt him. Well would it be for you, Richard Ashton,
if you would contemptuously spurn him as you would kick a rabid
dog from your path.
I have noticed this person before in these pages but I will now
give him a more elaborate introduction to the reader; but as he is
an unsavory subject I will make the introduction as brief as
possible.
His name was Stanley Ginsling, he was the youngest son of an
English gentleman, of considerable property, and of more pride,
whose estate lay in the vicinity of Ashton's native town. His
father intended him for the Church, not because there were any
manifestations that he was peculiarly qualified for holy orders,
either by mental or moral endowments, but because he did not know
what else to do with him, he concluded he would make him a parson.
So, after he had gone through a certain course by private tuition
he was sent to Eton, preparatory to going to Oxford.
He then got through his studies in some manner, though it was
generally understood by his mates that he was better acquainted
with the brands of his favorite liquors and cigars than he was
with the works of the authors which filled up the list of his
college curriculum.
But when he entered Oxford he threw off all restraint and gave
himself up to a life of utter dissipation, and before long his
father received a polite note from the college authorities,
intimating that to save further disgrace he had better call his
worthy son home.
After this he became a dissipated tavern lounger, a barnacle on
the good ship of society, a miserable sponge.
He soon found, as he sententiously expressed it, that it was not
agreeable for him to remain under the kindly shelter of the
paternal mansion; so he, prodigal like, took the portion his
father gave him and spent it in riotous living. But he was
determined not to feed on husks, if unmitigated cheek and
unblushing effrontery could bring him better fare.
It was while he was a gentleman lounger about town he first met
Richard Ashton, who, at that time, had become too much demoralized
to be very choice in the selection of his associates. And Ginsling
was rather intelligent--had a fine person and pleasing address,
and had it not been for his moral depravity and lack of every
noble instinct, he might have made his mark in society.
So Ashton, the ultra radical, and Ginsling, the young scion of
extreme toryism, used to fraternize in their drinking bouts, and
though they would, when sufficiently stimulated, boozily wrangle
over their cups, there was in their common dissipation a ground
for mutual understanding. But in his sober moments the radical had
the most supreme contempt for his tory associate, and, sometimes,
could not suppress its manifestation. The other, however, was too
great a toady to be too thin skinned. It was not convenient for
him to be over-sensitive. In fact he was willing to swallow such
insults _ad infinitum_ if their donors would only furnish the
wherewithall to wash them down.
After Ashton left England he felt somewhat lonely, and then his
father had become so utterly estranged from him because of his
conduct, that his situation became unpleasant even for him; so he
determined to sail for America. Learning that Ashton had settled
in Rochester, he made his way to that city. He arrived there at
the latter part of the year 1864, towards the close of the
American War; and shortly after his arrival, meeting with his old
comrade, as we have informed the reader, the latter, strange to
say, had power enough over him to seduce him to his fall. And now,
when Ashton was leaving Rochester in order to get away from his
old associates, and was making resolutions of reform, here he was
again as his tempter to lead him astray.
At his salute Ashton looked up with a dazed, faraway look upon his
face, and then, as he slowly realized his position, he thought how
foolish he must have appeared to another who had witnessed his
fierce gesticulations and heard his wild and incoherent
murmurings. The thought covered him with confusion, and he did not
for a moment gain sufficient control of his faculties to answer
his interlocutor in a rational manner.
The other, however, relieved his embarrassment by continuing in a
bantering tone: "Why, Ashton, one would suppose by your actions
you were the principal of some terrible tragedy, and that just now
you were suffering from the "pricks of an outraged conscience." I
declare you have mistaken your calling; you would have made your
fortune on the stage. Why, your looks just now would have done for
either Hamlet in the crazy scene, or Macbeth when talking to
Banquo's ghost. But if you are suffering I have something which
will reach the seat of the ailment; as the Scripture puts it, it
is "A balm for all our woes, and a cordial for our fears." Here
it is, Ashton. I have just been up to Charley's to have this dear
little friend of mine replenished. How do you like the looks of
it?" And suiting the action to the word he held up before him a
beautiful little brandy flask. Then detaching the silver cup from
the bottle it partially covered, he filled it full to the brim.
"Here, Ashton, take this potheen," he said, "it will settle your
perturbed spirits, comfort your soul, and drive dull care away."
Ashton's hand shot forward mechanically to take the proffered
glass, and then he drew it hastily back.
"No, Quisling," he said, "I will not touch it. Curse the stuff;
it has wrought enough ruin with mine and me. I was just swearing I
would never drink again, and I was in earnest. I know I must have
appeared to you as some gibbering maniac, but I was fighting my
craven appetite for strong drink. Oh how hard the struggle has
been; its fierceness is only known to God and myself. It comes
upon me when I am least prepared to defend myself, and tortures me
with the cruel malignity of a devil. And then I beat it back, and
it comes upon me again. But I must triumph or go under; for if it
is not liberty with me it will soon be death."
He then turned fiercely upon Ginsling, and said--
"Why do you dog my footsteps like a shadow? Have you not wrought
ruin enough? Curse you; it was an evil day for me when you crossed
the Atlantic, for had you not done so, I would have been a
respectable and happy man to-day. It was you who urged me to
drink, and, listening to you, brought me down from the happy and
prosperous man that you found, to the miserable wreck you now look
upon! A thing for angels and good men to pity, and for devils and
evil men to despise. Leave me, if you have any pity, and do not
tempt me more."
If there had been the slightest instinct of honor in the creature
to whom these words were addressed, the appeal would not have been
in vain. But his original stock of this attribute had been
limited, and he had long since disposed of the little he once
possessed. Such an attribute as honor or pity was viewed by him as
a useless incumbrance, for he was a miserable, heartless wretch,
seeking the gratification of his own depraved appetite, and
careless of who might suffer.
He laughed with a seeming bluff heartiness when Ashton had
finished speaking, but the laugh sounded hollow and insincere.
Novelists are ever introducing upon their pages, as the villain of
the story, the smooth, oily rogue: as if they considered such ones
were alone capable of cunning roguery and subtle diabolism. But
there is many a mean soul disguised by a bluff, hearty exterior,
and the mask is much the more difficult to penetrate. It is said
of such an one--"He says hard things, but you always see the
worst of him, for he puts his worst side out." Shakespeare's
rogue, honest Jack Falstaff, was brusk and blunt, but he carried a
rascal's heart, and there are many now living who are just as
great blusterers, and are equally as cowardly and as base.
"Ha, ha! Ashton! this is too good to last! You know you have
assumed the role of the Prodigal Son before, but you have come
back to the riotous living again." Come, old fellow, take a
little; it will do you good. I believe you used to be an orthodox
Methodist, and, therefore, must be considerably versed in
Scripture, and you know that Paul advised Timothy to "take a
little wine for his stomach's sake, and for his oft infirmities."
When Ginsling had finished speaking, a look of unutterable scorn
passed over the face of Ashton, and he glared at the former with
fierce contempt, and once or twice he seemed as if about to reply,
but, though his quivering lips and the contortions of his face
showed violent emotion, he for a time uttered no response, as if
he could not find words adequate to express his burning thoughts,
till suddenly starting he said--"Pshaw! you miserable rascal, it
was an evil day for me when I first met you. Have you not wrought
ruin enough? Why do you come again to tempt me? Leave me or I will
not be responsible for the consequences." And, turning upon his
heel, he abruptly left him.
"Whew--but that's cool," whispered Ginsling, "but old fellow you
are not going to escape me that easily. I have come down here for
a purpose, and I am going to succeed in my undertaking, or my name
is not Stanley Ginsling."
And I might here give the reader to understand that it was not
mere accident which brought Ginsling to Charlotte that day, he had
come with a fixed purpose of meeting Ashton, enticing him to
drink, and then accompanying him upon his journey and getting as
much out of him as possible. He had heard Ashton say it was his
intention to start for Canada, and he concluded that he was too
good a quarry for an old hunter like himself to lose. And as it
did not matter to him whether he spent the instalments, which were
regularly forwarded from home, in the United States or in Canada;
he resolved to meet Ashton at Charlotte, and be the companion of
his voyage. This accounts for his coming upon the latter as we
have just narrated.
He did not allow Ashton, who was walking rapidly away after he had
done speaking, to proceed far before he called after him, "Stop!"
The latter turned to learn what he wanted, for he began to have a
little compunction of conscience, because he had treated him so
rudely, and under the impulse of the new change of feeling waited
until Ginsling had caught up.
"Now Ashton," he said, "I think you have treated me in a manner
which is very hard for a gentleman of spirit to endure." As he
said this he saw the faint outline of a sneer curling the lip of
his companion. But taking no notice he hastily continued, "But I
have known you too long to be over-sensitive at what you say or
do, I would endure more from you, old fellow, than from any man on
earth. Let us be friends, Ashton, for the sake of our friendship
in 'Merry England.'"
"I am sure, Ginsling, I don't want to part with you in anger, and
if I have wounded your feelings you must remember it was under
strong provocation. Drink has been my ruin, and the ruin of those
I love best on earth. It has certainly been 'Our Curse,' and
through it I have been most cruel to those I love best and for
whom, when I am myself, I would sacrifice my life to defend from
evil or danger. This morning I promised my wife, as I have at
least a score of times before, that I would keep sober, and, while
struggling against my appetite, and determined to conquer, no
matter how much suffering the struggle might entail, you came up,
as my evil genius, to tempt me to my ruin, I could scarcely endure
your solicitations, but your rough banter drove me wild."
"Well, old fellow, let it all pass, I was not aware of the mood
you were in, or I would have been more careful how I addressed
you. I am sure I would be the last man in the world who would
knowingly cause you pain. And to lead you astray, I can assure
you, is far from my purpose. I would rather do what I could to
help you. And, in my opinion, if I can prevail upon you to take a
few spoonfuls of brandy I will do this most effectively; why, man,
a glass is just what you want. A little, under certain circumstances,
will benefit any one who takes it; especially is this the case with
one who is as you are now. Why, you are all unnerved--see how your
hands tremble, and your whole system seems as if it wanted toning
up. Now if you break off too suddenly it may be serious for you,
while if you take a little, to brace you up, such disagreeable
consequences will not follow. I hate a man to drink too much, for,
if he does, he is sure to make a fool of himself, but a little will
do any man good."
The tone and manner of Ginsling when he thus addressed Ashton was
subdued and gentlemanly, for he had not so far degenerated as to
have lost altogether the grace and polish which the refined
associations of his youth had given to him. His language, also,
sounded reasonable to the one to whom it was addressed, for,
though Ashton had become an awful example of the ultimate issue of
moderate drinking, at least in some cases, he would still argue in
its favor, and when the advocates of prohibition would point to
those who had fallen victims to the pernicious habit, he would
answer that it was the abuse and not the use of intoxicating
liquor which produces the evil.
So Ginsling, who had frequently heard him thus argue, adroitly
stole an arrow out of his own quiver, and addressed him as he had
frequently heard him address others. And there was just enough
truth mixed with the sophistry of his argument to carry conviction
to the mind of one as unstable as Ashton; for he did feel all
unnerved. He had broken off suddenly from a long-continued drunken
spree, and was beginning to have premonitions of something which
he dreaded only second to death. He had already twice suffered the
horrors of delirium tremens, and he now had good cause for fearing
another attack. It was to this Ginsling referred when he said if
he broke off suddenly it might lead to serious consequences. So,
after what seemed to be a desperate struggle--the better instincts
of his nature endeavoring to overcome the craving of his appetite
and the sophistry of his tempter--he concluded he would just take
a little now to help him over this one trouble, and then he would
give it up forever. He argued to himself, "I could not live
through another attack, for I am sure the dreadful suffering is
akin to the horrors of the host."
"Well, Ginsling," he said, "I think I will take your advice." He
was half ashamed thus to speak, because he was about to do
something for which his conscience strongly condemned him, and
also because he felt he was manifesting weakness and vacillation
in the presence of one whom he, in his heart, despised, and who,
after this, would hold similar sentiments in regard to himself.
"I do feel a little unlike myself this morning, and as the wind is
rather squally, and the captain says when we shoot out beyond the
point the lake will be wild, I need a little something to settle
my stomach; I have a fearful dread of sea-sickness." He said this
partly to justify his conduct to his companion, but more to
convince himself he was about to take a step which was not only
perfectly justifiable, but, under the circumstances, a manifestation
of wisdom.
If a man is about to perform an action of doubtful propriety, he
is never at a loss to find arguments to defend the course he is
about to pursue, and though he may not be able to satisfy his
conscience, he can, at least to some extent, deaden the acuteness
of its pangs. Richard Ashton endeavored to justify his present
action to himself, in the moment which intervened between his
new-formed resolution and its consummation. The reader is no doubt
aware, from experience, that a great deal will pass through the
mind in the space of a single moment, and that sometimes a man's
weal or woe, for time, yea, and for eternity, depends upon a
decision which has to be thus hastily given. It was one of these
crucial moments which Ashton was now passing through. Alas! his
decision was far from being a wise one, and he could not deceive
himself so completely as not to partially feel this; for, try how
he would, he could not banish the thought that yielding to the
tempter might entail a train of misery horrible to contemplate.
Then Ruth's pale, pleading face, all suffused with tears, came up
vividly before him, as he last saw her, and as he remembered the
promise given, for a moment he hesitated, but finally he subdued
every better feeling, and reaching forth his hand, took the glass
which Ginsling temptingly offered, and drained it to the dregs.
One glass such as he had thus taken was sufficient to make Ashton
regardless of consequences, and, therefore, it was not long before
it was followed by another and more copious one. In short, in half
an hour after he had met Ginsling he was wild and reckless, and
the latter had accomplished his purpose, for Ashton was spending
his money as freely as though he had the coffers of a Rothschild
or an Astor. In short, ere the steamboat had started he had to be
helped on board, for he was utterly helpless.