“Well,” said Andrew Furlong to James Lacey, “well! that ginger cordial,
of all the things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s
beautiful stuff; and so cheap.”
“What good does it do ye, Andrew? and what want have you of it?” inquired
James Lacey.
“What good does it do me!” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead in a
manner that showed he was perplexed by the question; “why, no great good,
to be sure; and I can’t say I’ve any want of it; for since I became a
member of the ‘Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head
and the weakness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty
in myself as any one can be, God be praised! And sure, James, neither of
us could turn out in such a coat as _this_, this time twelvemonth.”
“And that’s true,” replied James; “but we must remember that if leaving
off whisky enables us to show a good habit, taking to ‘ginger cordial,’
or any thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.”
“You are always fond of your fun.” replied Andrew. “How can you prove
that?”
“Easy enough,” said James. “Intoxication was the worst part of a
whisky-drinking habit; but it was not the only bad part. It spent TIME,
and it spent what well-managed time always gives, MONEY. Now, though they
do say--mind, I’m not quite _sure_ about it, for they _may_ put things
in it they don’t own to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek
more flushed than if you had been drinking nothing stronger than milk or
water--but they _do_ say that ginger cordials, and all kinds of cordials,
do not intoxicate. I will grant this; but you cannot deny that they waste
both time and money.”
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Andrew. “I only went with two or three other boys
to have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour--_not_
three quarters, certainly; and there’s no great harm in laying out a
penny or twopence that way, now and again.”
“_Half_ an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “and what is worse,
it unsettles the mind for work; and we ought to be very careful of any
return to the _old habit_, that has destroyed many of us, body and soul,
and made the name of an Irishman a by-word and a reproach, instead of
a glory and an honour. A penny, Andrew, _breaks the silver shilling
into coppers_; and twopence will buy half a stone of potatoes--that’s a
consideration. If we don’t manage to keep things comfortable at home, the
women won’t have the heart to mend the coat. Not,” added James with a sly
smile, “that I can deny having taken to TEMPERANCE CORDIALS myself.”
“You!” shouted Andrew, “_you_, and a pretty fellow you are to be blaming
me, and then forced to confess you have taken to them yourself. But I
suppose they’ll wear no hole in _your_ coat? Oh, to be sure not, _you_
are such a good manager!”
“Indeed,” answered James, “I _was_ anything but a good manager eighteen
months ago: as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a
Monday, and seldom on Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle patient Mary,
often bore hard words; and though she will not own it, I fear still
harder blows, when I had driven away my senses. My children were pale,
half-starved, naked creatures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife
tried to keep to pay the rent, well knowing I would never do it. Now----”
“But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “the cordial!--sure I
believe every word of what you’ve been telling me is as true as gospel;
ain’t there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment on Ireland’s blessed
ground, that can tell the same story. But the cordial! and to think of
your never owning it before: is it ginger, or anniseed, or peppermint?”
“None of these--and yet it’s the _rale_ thing, my boy.”
“Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “let’s have a drop of it; you’re
not going, I’m sure, to drink by yerself--_and as I’ve broke the
afternoon_”----
A very heavy shadow passed over James’s face, for he saw that there
must have been something hotter than even ginger in the “_temperance_
cordial,” as it is falsely called, that Andrew had taken, or else he
would have endeavoured to redeem lost time, not to waste more; and he
thought how much better the REAL temperance cordial was, that, instead of
exciting the brain, only warms the heart.
“No,” he replied after a pause, “I must go and finish what I was about;
but this evening at seven o’clock meet me at the end of our lane, and
then I’ll be very happy of your company.”
Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’s cordial could be, and
was forced to confess to himself that he hoped it would be different
from what he had taken that afternoon, which certainly had made him feel
confused and inactive.
At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane.
“Which way do we go?” inquired Andrew.
“Home,” was James’s brief reply.
“Oh, you _take_ it at home?” said Andrew.
“I _make_ it at home,” answered James.
“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman _that owns ye_.
Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard
almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.”
“My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James.
“And do you bottle it or keep it on draught?” inquired Andrew, very much
interested in the “cordial” question.
James laughed very heartily at this, and answered,
“Oh, I keep mine on draught--always on draught; there’s nothing like
having plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and
then James laughed again, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely
_his_ real temperance cordial must contain something quite as strong as
what he had blamed him for taking.
James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good
deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the
centre of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth--knives,
forks, and plates for the whole family, were ranged upon it in excellent
order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children
rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband
had characterised as “the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very
act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the
substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish
of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him
with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that
day. The eldest girl declared she had achieved the heel of a stocking;
one boy wanted his father to come and see how straight he had planted
the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in addition, and
volunteered to do a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned.
Happiness in a cottage seems always more real than it does in a gorgeous
palace. It is not wasted in large rooms--it is concentrated--a great
deal of love in a small space--a great, _great_ deal of joy and hope
within narrow walls, and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it
not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the
affections?--that the love of a peasant within his sphere, is as deep, as
fervent, as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince?--that
all our best and purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest
_worldly_ soil?--and that we need not be rich to be happy? James felt all
this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who
had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts,
that were within even his humble reach, might be enjoyed without sin.
He stood--a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his home;
and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating in his bosom, and
consequently shared his joy.
“I told you,” said James, “I had the _true temperance cordial_ at
home--do you not see it in the simple prosperity by which, owing to the
blessings of temperance, I am surrounded?--do you not see it in the
rosy cheeks of my children, in the smiling eyes of my wife--did I not
tell truly that she helped to make it? Is not this a true cordial,”
he continued, while his own eyes glistened with manly tears, “is not
the prosperity of this cottage a _true temperance cordial_?--and is
it not _always on draught_, flowing from an ever-filling fountain? Am
I not right, Andrew; and will you not forthwith take my receipt, and
make it for yourself? You will never wish for any other: it is warmer
than ginger, and sweeter than anniseed. I am sure you will agree with
me that a loving wife, in the enjoyment of the humble comforts which
an industrious _sober_ husband can bestow, smiling, healthy, well-clad
children, and a clean cabin, where the fear of God banishes all other
fears, make