mount. They are ringing that bell with the utmost violence and
impatience.' 'Go, then; mount and win,' said the lady. 'So I always do,'
said he, whispering something in her ear. 'Begone, you wicked boy!' said
she, laughing, but pushing him away. 'Now that there's a vacancy,' said
the old Colonel, 'I'll occupy M.'s place, and repeat all those
transgressions you refer to, solely, you know, to make myself
agreeable.' 'That's rather an odd way of doing it, isn't it?' replied
Mrs. D. 'It's something like beating one till you're tired, and then
claiming credit for leaving off a minute or two.' 'No, no; it's a great
deal more than that. I apply soothing plasters, don't I? and dress you
very nicely, don't I?' 'Nothing of the sort. I have my ayah to do that;
and if you're going to beat me again, on the strength of your nice
dressing, I tell you I won't suffer it.' 'Well, then, just to please
you, instead of dressing, I'll do the other thing, if you will only let
me; in short, I'll do anything to please.' 'Well, then, Colonel W.,
you'll stop, if you please. I have, and you have, allowed your tongue
greater latitude than ought to have been allowed, so if you please
you'll stop now, and we'll talk of something else.' Old W. was quick
enough to understand from the lady's tone and manner that she would
resent any prolongation of the giff-gaff he had been indulging in, so,
like an experienced warrior, he drew off his forces, and said: 'Come,
then, I'll go on with the horses.' The lady, to show that she had
forgiven the old sinner, said with an arch smile: 'I see how it is. Mrs.
Williamson does not keep you at all in order; she must do better in
future, or I shall warn her if she doesn't. You're such an impetuous old
gentleman that she'll have you paying adoration to all the ladies in the
station.' 'Oh no,' returned old W., 'you wouldn't do that: have some
compassion. Spare me that.' 'A-ha!' said Mrs. D., 'so I have found a
crevice in your armour, have I? Ha, ha, ha!' laughing maliciously.
'Well, sir, behave yourself, and try and control your juvenile
impetuosity. Ha, ha, ha! How M. will laugh when I tell him!' 'No, no;
you won't tell him--I'm sure you won't.' 'I rather think I shall,' said
the lady. 'Are you afraid of twelve paces?' 'As far as that,' replied
Colonel W., 'I fear nothing, and I've proved that more than once. We can
settle it over a handkerchief if M. likes; but I am afraid to face the
ridicule, the scandal, and the gossip that a meeting between me, a
married man, and M. on account of a married lady, might and would give
rise to. I confess I am afraid of that. Come, be generous, and don't say
anything about my small delinquencies.' 'Well, sir, if you'll promise to
behave yourself, I will for the present hold my tongue.' 'That's kind.
Now we'll look at the horses.' So the horses were looked at and pointed
out individually, and their qualities and prospects descanted on. By and
by the start took place. M.'s horse Leander won; Trojan, the horse
backed by Captain Venables, second; and Roderic, Colonel MacC.'s horse,
third; the rest nowhere. Mrs. D.'s delight was inexpressibly great, and
while she was talking with the utmost volubility she declared she had no
words to express it.
In the midst of the glee and the rejoicing, M. made his appearance, but
with a countenance expressive of anything but mirth and satisfaction.
'What's the matter, Frank?' said Mrs. D. 'Nothing,' said M., 'but that I
have lost the race.' 'How can that be?' said the lady. 'Your horse came
in first.' 'Yes; but when the jockey was weighed, it was found that he
had lost weight.' 'Oh, how sorry I am,' said Mrs. D.; 'I could actually
cry, I'm so vexed.' 'Don't do that, "mera jan," don't do that; I'd
rather lose the next race than that you should do that.' 'Well, Frank, I
won't if I can help it.' 'I am really sorry,' said Colonel W.; 'but how
did it happen?' 'I can't tell, and the boy can't tell. He is a good lad,
and is now doing what you were almost doing, Emma; he is crying his eyes
out because he has lost the race and I have lost my money.' 'But how did
it occur?' 'I suppose some of the shot escaped out of the shot-belt,
though how they could I don't know. However it came about, it has
happened, and I have lost the race.' 'Well,' said the Colonel, 'you take
it very philosophically.' 'Why should I not do so? fretting or fuming
won't help me. Losing my temper won't save me from losing my money.'
'True,' returned the Colonel; 'but few exhibit so much command over
themselves.' 'Few are like Frank,' said Mrs. D. 'But how much weight did
the boy lose?' 'I forget exactly; not many grains over allowances.' 'And
must you lose the race for that? that is hard.' 'No, "mera jan," it is
the law, the rule; and it is as fair for one as the other.' 'Why, then,
don't they have a piece of lead scraped or filed down to what is exactly
required, and then if it were sewn into the jacket it could not be
lost.' 'Not a bad plan, Emma, truly; but it can only help us for the
future; it cannot help us on this occasion.' 'What I can't understand is
how Cubbon's horses, by far the best of those which started, did not
win.' 'It was in consequence of their acknowledged superiority that
they lost,' replied M. 'Isn't that a paradoxical remark,' asked Mrs. D.
'No, Emma,' said M.; 'they carried too much extra weight. I knew they
would lose, and I told the Colonel so, and advised him to scratch them.
I also said I thought that the committee had decided erroneously; but he
was so good and so generous that he declared he would rather lose than
spoil the race and the general pleasure. Oh, he is _primus et solus_.'
All sung Colonel Cubbon's praises, and then all prepared for the second
heat.
Not to make my story too long, it is merely necessary to state the facts
as they occurred. Trojan was first. The little mare Kate (M.'s horse)
came in second, but again M. lost through his jockey, this time
evidently by villainy; the boy had chosen to lose his whip. This would
not have occurred had the lad who rode the first race been allowed to
ride the second, which M. himself wished. His wishes were, however,
overruled by his friends; so the honest but unfortunate jockey was
discarded and the scoundrel trusted, as too often happens in this world
in more important matters. As he himself said, 'Fate was determined to
win the race against him.'
Poor fellow! that day's sport made him an indebted and distressed man
all his days. On the other hand Fate, or Dame Fortune was equally
determined that Captain Venables should be a winner. First, the horse he
backed so largely was an ugly, awkward, bony-looking brute that would
never have had the ghost of a chance had not the committee, most
unaccountably, at the last moment almost, doubled the length of the
course. This enabled Trojan's wind and bottom to tell. Secondly, by
another oversight, the weight named for him to carry was insignificant.
For, by height, and size, and strength, he ought to have carried a
stone more than he did; but, in truth, his other qualities were
overlooked; his Roman nose and awkward appearance, together with his
comparative want of speed, which was well known, deceived the members of
the committee. He was scoffed at as a competitor, and was generally put
down as nowhere in the race, and consequently the bets and odds were
heavy against him. Had it not been for the double course, which made the
stretch close on three miles, the knowing ones would have been quite
right; but the alteration, which was purely accidental, upset all their
calculations. Still, had it not been for the first jockey's accident and
ill-luck, Leander would have won. As it was, Captain Venables won
everything; his gains were calculated at more than £2,000, and, as
everyone said, lucky it was for him that he did win. Had he lost, he had
nothing, absolutely nothing, to offer in the shape of payment but his
commission.
All the senior officers of the 39th had been constant and earnest in
their remonstrances and entreaties to Captain Venables to draw back, and
not to involve himself to such a perilous extent; but all to no purpose.
An obstinate fit of deafness, and, as it was looked on, madness, seemed
to have got possession of him. He would hear nothing, see nothing, and
say nothing except, 'Well, we shall see,' and such like cool, determined
phrases. Everyone set him down as an obstinate madman, whose ruin was
certain. Major S. said to him after a long, earnest, and fruitless
remonstrance, 'Well, Venables, I shall be sorry, after twenty years'
service, to see you carrying a musket, but there's nothing else before
you that I can see.' 'But,' replied V., 'I can see something else,
Major; you will never see me carrying a musket.' 'I hope not,' replied
the Major, as he walked out intensely disgusted and disappointed.
The real meaning of the expression was not understood till after the
speaker's death. Then, as members of the committee appointed for that
purpose were examining and noting down his effects, a bottle labelled
'Cyanide of Potassium' was found; it contained fully two ounces, not
having been opened. This of itself might not have excited much
suspicion, as several officers were then amusing themselves with
learning how to plate copper and other articles, for which the salt in
question was largely used; but that it had been obtained for another and
far more deadly object was made clear by a book found near the bottle.
This was the last edition of Taylor on poisons. The section on prussic,
or hydrocyanic, acid and its compounds had evidently been carefully
studied; there were many marks and annotations in the handwriting of the
winner of the race in pencil, and one which explained the writer's
feelings and intentions so plainly as to remove all doubt from the minds
of the committee. The words were these, after underlining the quantities
required to kill an adult, 'But, after all, I may not require it.' The
Father of all mercy graciously removed him from the world without having
the contemplated crime to answer for.
The manner of this unfortunate man's death was as follows: After the
second heat, when all doubt was removed, and it was certain that Trojan
had won so largely, Captain Venables flushed up so as to appear almost
purple in the face. My brother was standing directly opposite in the
race-stand, and at the time watching the winner. He beheld the
extraordinary flush mentioned, saw it gradually fade and pass away, and
a deadly paleness succeed to it; finally, he saw the most extraordinary
changes take place. The officer's face became brown, leaden, almost
green, and at last a little flushed; then he tottered, and would have
fallen but that a friend held him up and supported him until a palankeen
could be found; into this he was placed and conveyed home. Dr. Davis,
the assistant surgeon of the regiment, was sent for; he directed his
patient to take a glass of hot brandy-and-water directly, to be
undressed, and put to bed. The report spread everywhere that Captain
Venables, the winner of the race, had been so overcome by the excitement
as to be seriously ill; that he had drunk a glass of brandy-and-water,
had been put to bed, and was not to be disturbed till to-morrow. Few
except my brother thought that anything beyond over-excitement was the
matter; but he had closely observed the extraordinary changes exhibited
by the poor man's face, and feared a fatal issue. Almost every other
person said: 'Oh, he'll be all right to-morrow. Oh, it's nothing but
over-excitement; he knew if he had lost that he would have to sell his
commission, and have to serve in the ranks, so, after all, his being
upset by his wonderful escape and good fortune is nothing to be wondered
at.'
This being the general opinion, little more was said or thought of
Captain Venables; but there was great stir and bustle amongst the young
people, and especially amongst the young ladies, nor indeed was the stir
and excitement confined to the young people. A fancy ball, to follow on
the evening of the races, was too important and rare an occurrence to be
lightly passed over. This momentous consummation to the races had been
announced more than six weeks before, so tailors and a variety of
curious artificers had been busy during the month. Ladies and gentlemen
had also been unusually busy. The result of all this preparation was a
very splendid collection of fancy costumes and groups taken from Scott's
novels, as well as from the more sober though less delightful pages of
history. Some of the groups and costumes were so exceptionally good that
they really deserve a passing notice.
Of these groups Queen Elizabeth and three ladies of her court, in the
costume of that day, with their grand ruffs, farthingales, and trains
were very effective. Their four cavaliers, all habited in the well-known
dress worn by Sir Walter Raleigh, formed a much-admired set for a
quadrille. Queen Mary and her four Marys, with cavaliers wearing
Highland dresses, formed another set for a quadrille, and were much
admired. Another group habited as Virgins of the Sun also attracted much
notice, the leader being Mrs. W. This naturally gave rise to several
facetious remarks, which I leave to the imagination of the reader. Then
after the groups there were several couples, which elicited marked
applause. Mrs. C. and Mrs. M., as two Greek ladies, were greatly
admired. Then Mrs. L. and Mrs. C., habited in the costume worn in the
reign of George I., were acknowledged by all to be capital, and won
universal admiration. Miss S., whose fine figure, beautiful complexion,
and good-natured face must not be omitted, habited as a flower-girl, won
many admirers. Other young ladies were seen disporting themselves as
Persians, Circassians, Swiss maidens, sylphs, and vivandieres, and were
all more or less admirable, and when mingled with the requisite number
of Turks, Greeks, Hungarians, devils, and scaramouches, made up a
beautiful and interesting _mélange_ of characters. But the admired of
all admirers was Mrs. S., in Scott's too charming character of Rebecca.
To very handsome and expressive features, and to a tall, faultlessly
graceful figure, this lady added the appropriate beauty of a brunette.
Her dark eyes were fringed with long silken lashes; her long and
luxuriant dark tresses, partly escaping from ribbons and turban, fell in
natural curls on her neck and shoulders, and, seen through her gauze
veil, formed a wealth of beauty which set off and enhanced the witchery
of a bust that Leda herself might have envied. Her costume, closely
copied from the description given in 'Ivanhoe,' completed the
enchantment wrought by her appearance. Her elegant little feet and
slippers, almost concealed by her full silken trousers, when they did
appear, gave a provoking glimpse of that perfection of form which her
dress concealed. She was by all admitted to be the cynosure of all eyes.
But where was the Bois-Guilbert who ought to have been her cavalier? Ah,
where indeed? 'Tell it not in Gath, speak it not in the streets of
Ascalon.' The Bois-Guilbert, who was to have been personated by her
husband, Captain S., was unable to stand or even to articulate; he was
lying on his bed, partly undressed, almost unable to move, and in a
pickle that cannot be described. Poor Rebecca! her sorrowful expression
of countenance was felt too deeply to be regarded as acting, or if it
was it was acting with an aching heart. Unhappily the condition in which
Captain S. was found was almost a nightly occurrence; and yet this very
man, when sober, was without exception the handsomest and finest man in
the cantonment.
The sensitive mind recoils with indignation, disgust, and horror from
the picture presented. God's grandest gift to man, his intellect (which,
far better than any trivial anatomical distinction, distinguishes him
from the beast), wilfully, wickedly, and wantonly thrown aside to
gratify the lowest of all propensities. But the drunkard does more than
this. It is a libel on the beast to say that the drunkard makes a beast
of himself; he makes himself worse and lower than the beast, for the
beast does not get drunk. It is only man who gets drunk; it is only man
who dares to insult his Creator in this detestable manner--who dares to
fling back in His face his best gift, and who thus displays, at one time
and in one act, his disobedience, his wickedness, his folly, and his
ingratitude. And if we now inquire how a persistence in drinking ends,
the hospital, the gaol, and the workhouse answer. While, during life, as
the man pursues the dreadful downward path, he forfeits every kindly
feeling on the part of those who once loved him, and would have done
their best to serve him, in death he is remembered only as 'that drunken
fellow' So-and-so. Some former friend, who knew him before he had
yielded to this enthralling vice, may say perhaps: 'Well, I am sorry for
poor ----. I knew him when he was as nice a fellow as you could wish to
see; and to think that he, or such as he, should be among the victims of
the Vampire Drink, is very sad; I cannot bear to think of it.' This is
the career of the drunkard in this world. What it must be in the world
to come, when he must give an account of his life, is dreadful to
reflect on.
If the drunkard is a married man, his offences and his wickedness are
greater still; all that applies to the unmarried man applies to him, and
in addition cruelty of the worst kind--cruelty so heartless and so
unnatural that, though we know it, we can scarcely believe it possible.
The fiercest and most ravenous beasts of prey (though not gifted with
human feelings and intelligence) do not desert their mates, nor their
young; but the drunkard who is married not only deserts both, but will,
to gratify his filthy passion, drink away his income, drink away his
status in society, drink away his future prospects, and thus reduce wife
and children from the position in which they were born, and had
heretofore moved, to want, penury and degradation. Still not contented,
but prompted by the horrible love of drink, the married drunkard
deprives his wretched, miserable wife of the trifle she earns weekly,
striving to stave off actual starvation, sells or pawns everything the
unhappy pair once possessed, and the wife dies in the streets of
starvation, cold, and misery. This is the natural result of drunkenness
when observed in its effects on the classes that live by their daily
labour. Let us trace in a higher grade the effects produced by
indulgence in this baleful habit. The drunkard before his marriage
manages to conceal his practices not only from the young lady he woos to
be his wife, but from her friends. He, however, soon shows his colours.
If in the army the natural consequence is that he drinks himself out of
his commission. By the generosity of his Colonel and brother officers,
he is allowed to sell, and the proceeds are made over to his unfortunate
wife, who is deeply compassionated by all the regiment. And shall this
mean, selfish wretch, who has wrecked the peace and prosperity of those
whom he has sworn to love and cherish--sworn on the altar of the Most
High--not be answerable? Shall he who has kept his holy marriage vows by
bringing privation and misery on those who should be nearest and
dearest, not be answerable? Innocence and virtue toiling in distress
appeal to Heaven strongly. Man may disregard, but there is One who will
not disregard--One who has said: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour and
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' A mother toiling to feed her
children--toiling in an altered and reduced position, to which she has
been brought by her drunken husband--is too sad, too noble a sight, not
to attract the eye of mercy. If the destroyer has one spark of human
feeling left, the knowledge of what he has done must be like the fire of
hell in his heart and brain; but words in such a case are vain.
'Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay,' and to the Lord's
vengeance such men must be left.
The effects of drunkenness, as exhibited by married and unmarried men,
have been drawn from instances unhappily too well known to the author.
Let us look now at the effects of this national sin, this degrading,
despicable form of selfishness, regarded from a public point of view.
What do the public prints tell us? What do we read of every day? Is
there a crime that can be named that cannot be shown to have originated
in drunkenness? Wife and child murder are actually common as one of
these results. The vile husband comes home drunk, a quarrel ensues
between him and his wife, and she--perhaps with her infant, or little
boy or girl--is kicked to death by the infuriated savage. And what is
too often the result? If the human brute expresses sorrow, and says he
had taken a drop too much, he is allowed in some way or other to escape.
Either the coroner and his jury bring in manslaughter, or the sapient
judge and jury, by whom the ruffian is tried, find some legal reason to
let him off, or the jury refuse to hang. They are too pitiful, but they
have no pity for the unfortunate woman and her child or children.
Drunkenness, as it is now regarded, is positively a protection to the
murderer. Let us see how it acts in cases of less enormity than murder.
Someone, man or woman, is beaten or kicked within an inch of his or her
life, and the excuse invariably is that the beast had been drinking.
Magistrates almost always ask this question. Policemen never fail to
state that the man was, or was not, drunk. If the statement is that he
was not drunk, it invariably acts as an aggravation of guilt; and, _vice
versâ_, if the culprit is pronounced to have been drunk, it is at once
received as a palliation. That which in common-sense is a positive
crime, _per se_, is made by irrational custom to lessen and mitigate a
greater crime.
The plea put forward to defend this practice is this: Would you punish
severely the man who, from the influence of seductive company, or from
any other cause, happens to get tipsy, even if he should commit
manslaughter or other serious offence while under the effects of vicious
stimulation? Certainly not. But this is mere sophistry. It is not an
accident we have to consider; it is that of men who night after night
deprive themselves of their senses by drink. In this case it appears
clear that the fact of the man being drunk is a serious addition to his
crime, as he has wilfully, and with his eyes open, deprived himself of
his senses. This portion of the subject is too wide, too vast, for me to
enter upon, as it necessarily touches the legal aspect of the question;
and there are no doubt numberless legal gentlemen, gifted with fine and
acute intellects, who are fully equal to the determination of the
intricacies and difficulties of the question.
To the reader, the author feels that he owes an apology for having in a
light work, devoted chiefly to the worship of Momus, been led to say
what he has said on legislative matters; the delict was not intentional,
it arose naturally from the incident related, and from consideration of
the dreadful evils of intemperance, and the defects of the statutes
passed in reference to it. Yet, if from the melancholy details recorded
with reference to gambling on the racecourse, and the miserable
instances of drunkenness brought forward (which, be it remembered, are
cases actually observed), one solitary individual be induced to reflect
on the life-long misery which almost surely will result from pursuing
either of these baneful paths, and he by this means is led to pause in
his ruinous career, the effects of the fault may perhaps go far to
obtain pardon for it. Nor can the author think that because his
principal object is to amuse, he should altogether be debarred from
sometimes assuming a graver tone. Examples of individual sorrows,
failings or crimes, ought not to be altogether useless, seeing that they
are pages of individual history, and all history we know teaches by
example.
Having now offered his apology, and recorded his plea for a favourable
judgment, his long digression draws to a close, and he returns to the
fancy ball, the description of which was interrupted by feelings excited
in consequence of the condition recorded of Captain S. Let us now forget
the unhappy man, and mingle with the gay crowd.