The wise Mr. George has remarked that "by no possibility can one really
use up his living in advance." "That is," he explains, "it is as
impossible to anticipate the products of one's labor, and live them up
before they are earned as it is to eat to-day the egg that is to be
laid to-morrow."
I do not dispute the egg part of this proposition, but I must protest
that if it is impossible for a man to anticipate the products of his
own labor, and to live them up in advance, it is quite possible for him
to anticipate the products of what some one else has already earned,
and to live them up most effectually. The only impossibility in the
premise is for this some one else ever to get his own again.
This statement should pass for an axiom, since it needs no proof. You
have had dollars of your own that have been appropriated thus, have you
not?
And of all habits that tend to demoralize a man, this one of dead-beat
borrowing is the worst. It will sap the last germ of manhood out of a
soul sooner than anything else I know of. It is one of the meanest
vices in society, and one of the most prevalent among a certain class
of young men.
I will not say that every person who asks to borrow money from a friend
without offering security is a dead-beat. Such a statement might be
somewhat wide of the mark. I only assert that I have always found it
so!
It was not without misgivings that Mr. Bright advanced "Dodd" the ten
dollars spoken of in the last chapter. But alas, poor man, he was yet
blind to the fact that whoever thus assists a person in the condition
in which "Dodd" now was does that person more harm than good.
There is any amount of light nonsense current on this point. See how
the method worked in this case.
"Dodd" really meant to do better when he left Mr. Bright's. People in
this condition always do mean to do better. He had made pledges to his
friend and he hoped to keep them. It takes more than hoping to succeed
in such eases, however.
I would by no means intimate that when a drunkard signs the pledge he
is always lying and does not mean to keep it. On the contrary, I think
the great bulk of those who thus write their names with a trembling
hand, do, at the time of writing, really mean to keep all that they
promise. But as a rule they change their minds when the trial comes,
and "Don't count this time!"
This statement is a sad one, but it is terribly true. There is a
reason for it.
And the chief reason is that these "unfortunates," as they are called,
get into the habit of being carried when they should walk on their own
feet. Your drunkard is always expecting sympathy, and help, and
upholding. He leans down on you; he lies down on you. He pleads
misfortune, disease, or something, and makes himself out a poor, weak
victim of circumstances. He asks for help, and of a kind that most
suits himself. He should not get such.
Help he should have, but of a kind that will make him help himself.
Because, when such a person is merely helped by another he becomes
helpless himself, and the last state of that man is worse than the
first.
It was so with "Dodd" Weaver. The kind offices of Mr. Bright had
really wrought him harm. He had thus been able to get money for some
weeks, and as he lived only for the moment now, this "accommodation"
kept him in his low mode of life.
It is the study of a lifetime how to deal justly with people in his
condition. If you doubt my word, try it. You will be convinced.
"Dodd" did intend to do better after leaving Mr. Bright's. But he went
right down town and took a drink to brace up on. This also is common.
It was two days after this that the young man came once more to appeal
to his benefactor. He was in trouble again, and according to the law I
have just noted he came for relief to the source from which help had
before come. There is no record of how long a man can thus abuse the
kindness of a friend. Sometimes death alone ends the scene.
But Mr. Bright was not a man to be trifled with when once he had taken
in the situation. He heard "Dodd's" story with disgust. The young man
had been drunk again, and in a brawl had struck an antagonist with
brass knuckles. For this offense he said the police were in search of
him, and would probably find him. He asked Mr. Bright to let him have
money to pay his fine, and so keep him out of jail. He could not bear
that disgrace, he declared.
But Mr. Bright was unmoved. He sat looking at "Dodd" for a moment in
silence, and then said:
"Not one cent, young man!"
"But I shall have to go to jail," faltered "Dodd," in a broken voice.
"You may go there, and stay there, for all of me," exclaimed Mr.
Bright, in a burst of righteous indignation, as all the past years rose
up before him and the memory of them floated before his vision. "I
have given you the last cent that I ever shall. You deserve to go to
jail, and it is probably the best thing that can happen that you
should."
"But my mother!" pleaded "Dodd."
"It is a fine time for you to plead your mother now, isn't it?" replied
Mr. Bright. "How much you have considered her and her feelings in the
last few years," he continued. "When you have been drunk on the
streets; when you have abused the hospitality of a gentleman; when you
have lied to me and obtained money from me under false pretenses, then
was the time for you to plead for sparing your mother. You did nothing
toward that then. I will not help you now."
Mr. Bright spoke firmly, and in a straight-forward tone. "Dodd" shrank
under his words as though they were lashes on a bare back. But once
more he pleaded:
"I don't know who will help me if you don't, and some one must help me,
for I can't suffer this disgrace."
"Well, no one shall help you if I can prevent it," replied Mr. Bright.
"What you need, young man, is to help yourself. If you haven't virtue
enough left to do this, you might as well go to jail, or into your
grave--it doesn't make much difference which. You are of no manner of
use in this world as you are now. You are worse than useless, you are
a dead load to your friends, your acquaintances, and society."
Mr. Bright laid on tremendously, now that he had begun, and "Dodd"
writhed under his strokes. The last flagellation left them both out of
breath, and there was silence in the room for some minutes. It was Mr.
Bright who spoke first:
"'Dodd,' my boy," he said, "I need not tell you how it pains me thus to
talk to you, you for whom I have striven so hard, and from whom I had
hoped for so much. You are naturally bright, but you are fickle by
nature, and, so far, you have lacked the manhood to correct this fault.
You are the only one who can ever do this. So one else can do it for
you. If ever you stand up like a man, it must be on your own feet. I
tried to teach you this long ago. I think I failed. At least is seems
so now. You did stand for a while though, my boy, and I would to God
you could do so again."
"Dodd" sat in his chair shedding bitter tears; he began feebly:
"Help me this once," he begged, "and before God, I promise you I will
never give you cause to be ashamed of me again."
"Keep your pledges to yourself," returned Mr. Bright. "I want none of
them. They are of no value whatever. You have come to a time now when
you must do something more than pledge, though there was a time when
your word was good, and I would have taken it, unquestioned, on any
occasion. But that time is past. It may come again, but the chances
are against it."
"You are making me out a monster," interlarded "Dodd," with an attempt
at injured innocence in his voice.
"And that is just what you are," said Mr. Bright. "You have grown out
of all semblance to the true type of a man. You are wicked, deceitful,
weak, vacillating, and untruthful. So long as you retain these
qualities there is no hope for you. Perhaps a punishment of a term in
jail may serve to bring you to a sense of your condition. If it will,
it is the best thing that can happen to you. Anyhow, I am willing to
see it tried."
"So you will not give me money to pay my fine?" groaned "Dodd."
"Not one cent," again answered Mr. Bright, as he showed the young man
to the door.