Chapter Nine.
Crossbourne Annual Temperance Meeting.
Week after week rolled by, and James Barnes continued firm to the pledge which he had signed in Thomas Bradly’s “Surgery.” And now the usual time for holding the annual meeting of the “Crossbourne Temperance Society” had come round, and a meeting was accordingly advertised to be held in the Town Hall. But mischief was apparently brewing; for all the bills announcing the meeting which were posted on the walls were either torn down or defaced the same night that they were put up,—a thing which had never happened before. So it would seem that the enemies of the temperance cause were prepared to offer more than ordinary opposition, and that very possibly they might try to spoil or interrupt the meeting itself.
And the friends of the temperance movement in Crossbourne had not to look far to find the cause. There had been mutterings of a coming storm for some time past. The lovers of strong drink, supported by those who made capital out of their unnatural and ruinous thirst, had been laying plans and concocting schemes for thwarting the steady advance which temperance was making in the town. And now the sudden and shocking death of poor Joseph Wright, so far from teaching any of his old associates the lesson which God, who can bring good even out of man’s evil, would have had them learn from that frightful disaster, had only made them plunge more deeply into the slough of drunkenness; and so total abstainers and their principles got more abuse and hatred from them than ever. Conscience would be heard for a little while, roused into utterance as it was by the death of their miserable companion; but they hated that inward voice—it exasperated them. Drink they would have, and cordially would they hate more and more all who would try, however gently and lovingly, to draw them away from the intoxicating cup. And now the desertion of James Barnes, as they considered it, to the enemy, made the fire of their wrath and indignation burn with a tenfold intensity.
“We’re like to have hot work to-night, sir,” said Bradly to the vicar, as he sat in the vicarage study on the morning of the meeting talking over the arrangements for the evening.
“I fear so,” said Mr Maltby; “so we must take proper precautions. I hear that the friends of poor Joseph Wright intend to muster in full force and spoil the meeting if they can. However, I have spoken to the police sergeant, and he will be there with one or two of his men to prevent any serious disturbance. You must see that they don’t turn off the gas, and get us into trouble that way.”
“All right, sir,” replied Bradly, “we’ll take care about that; but I ain’t much afraid. There’s a deal of bluster among those chaps, but it don’t take much to empty it out of ’em. Somehow or other I think we’re going to have a good meeting after all.”
Nevertheless, it was not without some considerable feeling of anxiety that the vicar entered the committee room of the Town Hall about a quarter of an hour before the time of commencement. He was accompanied by a brother clergyman from a distant county, who had brought a plain working-man with him from his parish. These were to be the chief speakers of the evening. Thomas Bradly was to bring James Barnes with him, and both were to take their places among the audience, but near the platform, so as not to attract more observation than necessary, at the first.
The hall, which was a spacious and well-lighted building, began to fill as soon as the doors were opened. There was manifestly an unusual interest taken, not necessarily nor probably in the cause itself, but, at any rate, in the present meeting. The friends of Joseph Wright and their companions had made it publicly known, and a matter of open boasting, that they intended to be there; and this announcement was the inducement to a number of idle men and boys to attend the meeting in the hopes of having some diversion. But Thomas Bradly and his friends were quite equal to the occasion; they were fully alive to the intention of their adversaries, and acted accordingly. As the opponents of temperance entered the hall, members of the Temperance Society contrived to slip in with them, and so to distribute themselves over the seats that no large number of the other side could be gathered in a compact body together.
By the time the minute-hand of the clock over the chairman’s seat had reached twenty-five minutes past seven—the meeting being advertised to begin at half-past seven—the hall was densely packed from one end to the other, the only unoccupied places being one or two seats close under the platform. Punctually at the half-hour the party from the committee room walked on to the platform, headed by the vicar; while at the same moment Thomas Bradly, followed by James Barnes, emerged from a side door near the platform, and the two friends placed themselves on two of the vacant foremost chairs. The entrance of these two parties was greeted by a roar of mingled cheers, laughter, and a few groans and hisses.
Mr Maltby advanced to the front of the platform, and there was instantly silence. “Just one word, dear friends, before we commence our meeting,” he said. “I have such confidence in your manly English honesty and common fairness, that I am persuaded that, whether you agree with us or no, you will give myself and my friends a quiet and uninterrupted hearing. We are come here to try and do some good. Bear with us, then, and listen to us.”
This short speech had the desired effect. There was indeed a grand effort made to obstruct and disturb on the part of the drinking faction; but it became apparent at once that the great bulk of the working-men present—though most had come chiefly with a view to be amused—were not at all disposed to allow the vicar and his friends to be hissed or shouted down. The few straightforward words just spoken aroused their better feelings, and the intended rioters felt that they must wait a little before attempting any further demonstration.
Thankful for the success of his brief speech, Mr Maltby proceeded to open the meeting with Scripture and prayer as usual. All were very still; but as he rose from his knees his eyes fell upon a man who sat at the extreme end of the front bench to his right. That man was William Foster. Never had the vicar seen him before at any meeting where he himself was present; and as he took his seat in the chair, he whispered to his clerical friend, “Do you see that man at the extreme end of the front bench? I am afraid his being here to-night bodes us no good, for he is the leading infidel and mischief-maker in the place.”—“Indeed!” replied his friend; “well, let us hope the best. Perhaps the Lord will give us a word even for him to-night. At any rate, we have a noble and intelligent audience before us; and let us do our best for them, and leave the issue in higher hands.”—“Thank you,” whispered the vicar; “I feel ashamed of my want of faith. Doubtless all will be overruled for good.”
He then proceeded to give a short address, in which, avoiding all harshness and bitterness of expression, he strove to leave on his hearers’ hearts the impression that love and nothing else constrained him and his fellow-workers in the efforts they were using to promote the spread of temperance in the parish and neighbourhood. The other speakers followed in the same strain; the working-man being able, in his rough-and-ready way, to carry with him the great majority of the meeting, so that a feeble attempt at disturbance from the opponents proved a decided failure.
But now a strange stir and excitement rustled through the vast assembly as James Barnes, at the invitation of the vicar, mounted the platform, and stood unabashed before his fellow-townsmen. But scarcely had he begun to open his lips when a torrent of yells and shouts burst from a score or two of drunken throats; others cheered, many laughed, some shouted; then followed a thunder of clapping and stamping, whistling and shrieking, and it seemed for a few moments as though the triumph were to be on the side of disorder and intemperance. But, as a second whirlwind of uproar was beginning, the vicar again stepped forward, and, raising his right-hand as begging silence, smiled pleasantly on the excited crowd, while he placed his left hand on the shoulder of James Barnes, who stood his ground manfully. Then followed shouts of “Shame, shame!”—“Sit down!”—“Hold your noise!”—“Hearken Jim!” and the storm gradually subsided into a calm.
“I’m one of yourselves,” began Jim bluntly, as soon as order was restored, and not in the slightest degree discomposed by this rough reception; “you shouldn’t make such a din. How’s a fellow to make himself heard? Why, it’s worse than half a dozen engines all whistling at once.” There was a buzz of amused satisfaction at this professional illustration, and James Barnes had got the ear of the meeting. “I’ll tell you what it is, friends,” he went on; “it’s true I ain’t much of a speaker, but I can tell you a thing or two about myself as may be useful. I’ve got my Sunday coat on to-night, and it’s my own, and it’s never been to the popshop. I couldn’t have said that a month ago, for I’d never a Sunday coat then. Another thing, I’m spending my own wages; that’s more nor I’ve done for many years past, for the devil’s been used to spend the best part of them for me and put ’em into the landlord’s till. Now I takes ’em to buy bread and clothes for the wife and children. Another thing, and better still, I’ve got one or two good friends as pulled me out of the mire, and won’t let me go. Tommy Tracks there, as you call him, he’s one of them; and your good friend the vicar,—for he is your friend, think as you please,—he’s another. And, best of all, I’ve got a clear head and a clear conscience, and a hope of a better home by-and-by, and a Saviour above all to look to; and I shouldn’t have had none of these if I’d been going on in my old ways. So you may laugh if you please when you say, ‘Jim Barnes has turned teetotaler;’ but I mean to sing when I says it, for it’s true, and he means to stick to it, with God’s help, all the days of his life.”
Having delivered himself of this brief address, James Barnes hurried down from the platform, followed by a roar of hearty applause, which completely drowned the efforts of a few dissentient voices.
The vicar was now just rising to call on another speaker to address the meeting, when his attention, as well as that of the whole audience, was turned to William Foster as he got up deliberately from his seat. Mr Maltby had watched him narrowly during the evening, and not without considerable anxiety and interest. Up to the close of Barnes’s speech Foster had apparently taken little or no interest in the proceedings; certainly he had not joined either in the applause or in the dissent. What was he now about to do? Turning to the vicar, amidst a breathless silence throughout the hall, he said, in a firm and clear voice, “Mr Chairman, may I say a few words to this meeting?” The vicar hesitated. Was this man going to spoil all? His eye at that moment caught Thomas Bradly’s. Thomas nodded to him, and then turned to Foster and said, “Get you on to the platform, William; the vicar and all the rest of us will give you a patient hearing, I’m sure.” Foster then mounted the platform, and stood for a moment facing the audience without speaking. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon recovered its firmness as he spoke as follows:—
“Mr Chairman and fellow-townsmen, I have not come here to-night to oppose the temperance movement, but quite the contrary. I am quite sure that movement has been doing good in this town, and is doing good still. You have only to look at Jim Barnes to see that. Everybody knows what he was, and everybody knows what he now is; there is no sham nor deceit in the matter. Now, whatever our creeds may be, whether we think alike in other things or not, there can be no two opinions about this matter with honest and reasoning men. The temperance movement is doing good, and we have before us a plain proof of it. Now, I am not here to-night merely to talk. I should not have come if that were all. I have come to act. I have professed to be a reasoning man, and to belong to a party that prides itself upon being governed by reason, and yet I have allowed myself to come more or less under the dominion of that strong drink which just turns a reasoning man into something far lower than an irrational brute. ‘Well, then,’ some of you might say, ‘can’t you exert your own will and give it up without coming to a temperance meeting to talk about it?’ Yes, I could; but that would be just merely doing good to myself. Now, I can’t help being aware that your chairman, the vicar of this parish, and his right-hand man, Thomas Bradly, are not content with being total abstainers for their own benefit, but are doing their best, spite of ridicule, opposition, and persecution, to get others to become abstainers also. They can have nothing to gain by this except the happiness of making others happy. I see this plainly; and my reason (they would call it conscience, I suppose) tells me that, if I am a really honest and unprejudiced man, I ought to follow their example. I am here to-night to do it. I have other reasons besides for taking this course, but I do not think it necessary to mention them on the present occasion. I know what it will cost me to take this step, but I have well weighed the consequences and am prepared to accept them. Mr Chairman, I will sign the pledge to-night in your book, and join your society, if you will allow me.” Having spoken thus, William Foster quietly resumed his seat.
The effect of this speech on the meeting was most overwhelming. Every word had been heard all over the hall, for Foster had a clear and powerful voice, and had spoken calmly and deliberately, as one who weighed every word and sentence carefully; and the silence while he addressed his audience had been almost oppressive. Was it possible that Foster could be in earnest? There was no mistake about it—every man was at once convinced of this from the vicar down to the most sottish of the anti-temperance gathering. Such a man as Foster would never have come forward in this way had he not had powerful and all-constraining motives to lead him to take such a step. When he sat down there was neither shouting nor laughter: the great body of working-men, including the obstructionists, seemed stupified; they looked at one another with open-eyed and open-mouthed wonder, and whispered their amazement and perplexity. Then the vicar, struck dumb for the moment by sheer astonishment, after exchanging with his brother clergyman on the platform a glance of deep thankfulness, rose, and addressing William Foster, said, “I cannot tell you, my friend, how truly glad I am to find that you have been guided to take such a step as you now contemplate; most cordially shall I receive your signature in our pledge-book, and welcome you to our society.” Then the crowd of hearers rose to their feet, and gave vent to their feelings in three hearty cheers; while the opponents of the cause made their way to the door as quickly as they could.
The next minute Thomas Bradly stood by the vicar’s side, and all sat hushed in attention as he addressed the meeting. Tears were in his eyes, and half-choked was his voice as he began:—
“Friends, I’ve been at many a temperance meeting in my day, but never at one that I shall remember like this. Some of us abstainers came here to-night with doubting hearts; it seemed as if the evil one was a-going to put a big stone or two in the way of the temperance cause, but instead of that he’s been and trod upon his own tail, as he often does. O bless the Lord for his goodness! We’ve had a mighty large stone took out of the way, instead of any new ’uns laid in our path. Ah! Why should we ever be fainthearted? The cause is a good cause, and it will prosper, depend upon it. And now, friends, there’s many of you here to-night as came, I know, just for a bit of fun; you didn’t mean no harm, but you wouldn’t have minded a little bit of a laugh against us. But it’s turned out just the other way: you’ve given us a help, and stopped the mouths of them as would have upset our meeting; so let them laugh as wins. And now, friends, I want to say a word to you about our friend William here. We’re all thinking about him; he has come forward like an honest man to-night, and a right brave man too. I know he can’t have done it without having to pay for it. I know, and you know too, as it’ll not be all smooth work between him and his mates. Now, whether you like or don’t like what he has done to-night, you can’t help respecting him for it; so just keep your tongues off him when you meet him, and do him a kind turn if you can. He and I ain’t of one mind, you well know—at least we haven’t been; but he knows this, that in anything that’s good I’ll back him up through thick and thin if he’ll let me. And now, here’s a grand opportunity; just some of you chaps as have been cheering him like anything come up to the table and sign the pledge with him, and keep it by God’s help, and you’ll bless this night every day of your lives, and so will the wives and children.”
There was a cheery response to this speech in many a hearty word of assent; and then the vicar closed the meeting, inviting any who were willing to come and sign. The crowded room was soon emptied of all but a very few, among whom were William Foster and about a dozen more of the working-men, who expressed their intention to sign with him. Foster himself signed his name with an unflinching hand, but said nothing. The vicar thought it wisest not to endeavour to draw him into conversation at this time, but with a kindly shake of the hand, and an expression of thankfulness at his joining the Temperance Society, bade him good-night.
As the committee and the speakers were leaving the hall, the vicar kept Thomas Bradly back, and said to him: “This is wonderful indeed; it is the Lord’s doing, and is marvellous in our eyes. Now you must keep your eye, Thomas, on Foster; I think you will get at him at first better than I should be likely to do. You will be able to see just how the land lies, and I shall be ready to come in at any time; only with such a man we must use discretion, knowing what his antecedents have been.”
“Ay, surely,” replied the other; “I’ll not let him go, sir, now that we’ve got hold of him—you may depend upon it. Oh! This is indeed what I never could have dreamt of. Well, we’ve had a grand night; and it’s a sign, I believe, as we’re going to have some rare bright sunshine on our temperance work.”
“I trust and believe so, indeed,” rejoined Mr Maltby, and they parted.
That meeting was never forgotten in Crossbourne, but was always spoken of as emphatically the great Crossbourne Temperance Meeting.