To which the indulger in moderate and honest four-penny replies, “I see exactly what teetotalism has done for you, and you can’t be too grateful for it; but there is no demand for it to do so much for me. If I was afire, as you say that you once were, and blazing in the consuming flames of drunkenness,—to use your own powerful language—no doubt I should be as glad as you were to leap into the first water-tank that presented itself. But I am not blazing and consuming. I am no more than comfortably warm under the influence of the pint of beer I have just partaken of; and though I am glad indeed to see you in the tank, if you have no objection, I will for the present keep outside of it.”
Again, from the tone adopted by certain total-abstinence professors, people who are compelled to take such matters on hearsay—the very people, by the way, who would be most likely, “for his good,” to join the majority of two-thirds that is to shut up taverns—would be made to believe that those who frequent the public-house are drunkards as a rule; that though occasionally a few, who have not at present dipped very deep in the hideous vice, may be discovered in the parlour and the taproom bemusing themselves over their beer, the tavern is essentially the resort of the man whose deliberate aim and intention is to drink until be is tipsy, and who does do so. The moderate man—the individual who is in the habit of adjourning to the decent tavern-parlour, which is his “club,” to pass away an hour before supper-time with a pipe and a pint of ale and harmless chat with his friends—is well aware of this exaggerated view of his doings; and it is hardly calculated to soften his heart towards those who would “reform” him, or incline him to listen with any amount of patience to their arguments. He feels indignant, knowing the imputation to be untrue. He is not a drunkard, and he has no sympathy with drunkards. Nay, he would be as forward as his teetotal detractor, and quite as earnest, in persuading the wretched reckless swiller of beer and gin to renounce his bestial habit. It is a pity that so much misunderstanding and misrepresentation should exist on so important a feature of the matter in debate, when, with so little trouble, it might be set at rest. If public-houses are an evil, it must be mainly because the indolent and the sensual resort thither habitually for convenience of drinking until they are drunk. Is this so? I have no hesitation in saying that in the vast majority of cases it is not. The question might easily be brought to the test; and why has it not been done? Let a hundred public-houses in the metropolis be selected at random, and as many impartial and trustworthy men be deputed to keep watch on the said public-houses every night for a week. Let them make note particularly of those who are not dram-drinkers, but who go to the public-house for the purpose of passing an hour or so there; let them mark their demeanour when they enter and again when they emerge; and I have no doubt that, by a large majority, the working man in search simply of an hour’s evening amusement and sociable society will be acquitted of anything approaching sottishness, or such an inclination towards mere tipsiness even, as calls for the intervention of the Legislature.
And now, while we are on the subject of statistics, and the peculiar influences it is the custom of the total abstainer to bring to bear against his erring brother the moderate drinker, I may mention what appears to me the highly objectionable practice of enlisting the cooperation of boys and girls—mere little children—in the interest of their cause. In the parliamentary discussion on the Permissive Prohibitory Liquor Bill, Colonel Jervis remarked, on the subject of the 3,337 petitions that were presented in its support: “I do not know whether the petitions that have been presented in its favour are properly signed; but certainly I have seen attached to one of those petitions which come from my neighbourhood names that I do not recognise. The signatures might, perhaps, be those of Sunday-school children; but I do not think that petitions from children should carry a Bill of this kind.” Were it any other business but teetotal business, one might feel disposed to pass by as meaningless the hint conveyed in Colonel Jervis’s words. None but those, however, who are conversant with the strange methods total abstainers will adopt to gain their ends will be inclined to attach some weight to them. The children are a weapon of great strength in the hands of the teetotal. Almost as soon as they begin to lisp, they are taught sentences condemnatory of the evils that arise from an indulgence in strong drink; soon as they are able to write, their names appear on the voluminous roll of total abstainers. At their feasts and picnics they carry banners, on which is inscribed their determination to refrain from what they have never tasted; and over their sandwiches Tommy Tucker, in his first breeches, pledges Goody Twoshoes in a glass from the crystal spring, and expresses his intention of dying as he has lived—a total abstainer. I am not a bachelor, but a man long married, and with a “troop of little children at my knee,” as numerous, perhaps, as that which gathered about that of “John Brown,” immortalised in song. But I must confess that I do chafe against children of a teetotal tendency one occasionally is introduced to. I have before made allusion to a recently-published volume entitled A Thousand Temperance Facts and Anecdotes. This is the title given on the cover; the title-page, however, more liberally reveals the nature of its contents. Thereon is inscribed, “One Thousand Temperance Anecdotes, Facts, Jokes, Biddies, Puns, and Smart Sayings; suitable for Speakers, Penny Readings, Recitations, &c.” And, to be sure, it is not in the least objectionable that the teetotaler should have his “comic reciter;” nor can there be a question as to the possibility of being as funny, as hilarious even, over a cup of wholesome, harmless tea as over the grog-glass. But I very much doubt if any but total abstainers could appreciate some of the witticisms that, according to the book in question, occasionally issue from the mouths of babes and sucklings. Here is a sample:
“A Child’s Acumen.—‘Pa, does wine make a beast of a man?’
‘Pshaw, child, only once in a while!’
‘Is that the reason why Mr. Goggins has on his sign—Entertainment for man and beast?’
‘Nonsense, child, what makes you ask?’
‘Because ma says that last night you went to Goggins’s a man, and came back a beast! and that he entertained you.’
‘That’s mother’s nonsense, dear! Run out and play; papa’s head aches!’”
I may have a preposterous aversion to a development of cuteness of a certain sort in children, but I must confess that it would not have pained me much had the above brilliant little anecdote concluded with a reference to something else being made to ache besides papa’s head.
Again: “Two little boys attended a temperance meeting at Otley in Yorkshire, and signed a pledge that they should not touch nor give strong drink to anyone. On going home, their father ordered them to fetch some ale, and gave them a can for the purpose. They obeyed; but after getting the ale neither of them felt inclined to carry it; so they puzzled themselves as to what they could do. At last they hit upon an expedient. A long broom-handle was procured, and slinging the can on this, each took one end of the broom-handle, and so conveyed the liquor home without spilling it.”
One realty cannot see what moral lesson is to be deduced from these two “funny” teetotal stories, unless it is intended to show that, from the lofty eminence of total abstinence, a child may with impunity look down upon and “chaff” and despise his beer-drinking parent. It would rather seem that too early an indulgence in teetotal principles is apt to have an effect on the childish mind quite the reverse of humanising. Here is still another instance quoted from the “smart-saying” pages:
“Two poor little children attending a school in America, at some distance from their home, were shunned by the others because their father was a drunkard. The remainder at dinner-time went into the playground and ate their dinner; but the poor twins could only look on. If they approached near those who were eating, the latter would say, ‘You go away; your father is a drunkard.’ But they were soon taught to behave otherwise; and then it was gratifying to see how delicate they were in their attention to the two little unfortunates.”
If such contemptible twaddle enters very largely into the educational nourishment provided for the young abstainer, we may tremble for the next generation of our beer-imbibing species. It appears, moreover, that those doughty juveniles, when they are well trained, will fearlessly tackle the enemy, alcohol, even when he is found fortified within an adult being; and very often with an amount of success that seems almost incredible. However, the veracious little book of temperance anecdotes vouches for it, and no more can be said. Here following is an affecting instance of how, “once upon a time,” a band of small teetotal female infants were the means of converting from the error of his ways a full-blown drunkard:
“We used to furnish little boys and girls with pledge-books and pencils, and thus equipped, they got us numerous signatures. A man was leaning, much intoxicated, against a tree. Some little girls coming from school saw him there, and at once said to each other, ‘What shall we do for him?’ Presently one said, ‘O, I’ll tell you: let’s sing him a temperance song.’ And so they did. They collected round him, and struck up, ‘Away, away with the bowl!’ And so on, in beautiful tones. The poor drunkard liked it, and so would you. ‘Sing again, my little girls,’ said he. ‘We will,’ said they, ‘if you will sign the temperance pledge.’ ‘No, no,’ said he, ‘we are not at a temperance meeting; besides, you’ve no pledges with you.’ ‘Yes, we have, and pencils too;’ and they held them up to him. ‘No, no, I won’t sign now; but do sing to me!’ So they sang again, ‘The drink that’s in the drunkard’s bowl is not the drink for me.’ ‘O, do sing again!’ he said. But they were firm this time, and declared they would go away if he did not sign. ‘But,’ said the poor fellow, striving to find an excuse, ‘you’ve no table. How can I write without a table?’ At this one quiet, modest, pretty little creature came up timidly, with one finger on her lips, and said, ‘You can write upon your hat, while we hold it for you.’ The man signed; and he narrated these facts before 1,500 children, saying, ‘Thank God for those children!—they came to me as messengers of mercy.’”