It is to be hoped this affecting, not to say romantic, episode in the history of “conversions,” will not be so lightly read that its chief beauties will be missed. It presents a picture full of the loveliest “bits” that to be thoroughly enjoyed should be lingered over. First of all, let us take the drunkard, too “far gone” for locomotion, leaning “against a tree.” Leaning against a tree, with an idiotic leer on his flushed and tipsy face, and maybe trying to recall to his bemuddled memory the burden of the drinking-song that he recently heard and participated in in the parlour of the village alehouse. “What shall we do with him?” “O, I’ll tell you: let us sing him a temperance song.” There you have a prime bit of the picture complete. The sot with his back to the tree, the swaying green boughs of which have tilted his battered hat over his left eye, and the band of little girls gathered in a semicircle about him, and rousing him to consciousness by the first thrilling note of “Away, away with the bowl!” The words sound as though they would go best with a hunting-tune, a sort of “Heigh-ho, tantivy!” and one can imagine the intoxicated one first of all mistaking it for that roistering melody, and gently snapping his thumbs at it, he being for the present somewhat hampered as regards his vocal abilities. One can imagine him chuckling tipsily and snapping his thumbs—feebler and still more feeble as he discovers his error. It is not a hunting-song; it is a temperance ditty of the first, the purest water! His heart is touched. His now disengaged thumbs seek the corners of his eyes, and the scalding tears steal shimmering down his red-hot nose! “Sing—sing it again!” he gasps. But no; the artless chanters have gained a step, and they mean to retain it. “Not till you sign the pledge,” say they. However, he begs so hard that they concede to the extent of a verse and a half. Still he is obdurate; but he gradually yields, till, driven into a corner, he falters, “But you have no table.” Then comes the crowning triumph of the picture—the incident of the hat. “You can write upon your hat—we will hold it for you.” And the deed was done!
The same volume reveals another story of so similar a kind that it would almost seem that the children of the first story had confided their miraculous experience to the children of the second story.
“A Crystal-Palace Incident.—The following pleasing incident was related to me by a youthful member of the choir, at the recent Crystal-Palace fête. It seems that some of the young choristers were amusing themselves in the grounds, and saw a poor man lying on the grass partially intoxicated. Their medals attracted his attention, and he began to dispute the motto, “Wine is a mocker.” This led to conversation, and the children endeavoured to induce him to become an abstainer, and sang several melodies. One of the conductors was also present. The man seemed much affected during the singing, and cried, my young informant said, until he was quite sober. He confessed that he had once been a teetotaler for three years, during which time he had been much benefited; but had broken his pledge through the influence of his companions. However, he was happily prevailed upon to sign again, and to put down his name in a pledge-book at hand, and before they separated he thanked the young people heartily, saying, ‘I did not come here expecting to sign the pledge. I shall now be able to go home to my wife and children and tell them; and to-morrow I shall be able to go to my work, instead of being at the public-house.’ What a blessing it may prove to that wife and family should the poor man keep to his resolution! Let no child despair of doing something towards reclaiming the drunkard, but let all endeavour, by loving, gentle persuasion whenever opportunity offers, to help to make the wretched drunkard blessed by living soberly.”
I should be sorry indeed to “make fun” of any attempt earnestly and heartily made by anyone for a fellow-creature’s good, but really there is so much that is of questionable sincerity in such effusions as those above quoted, that one feels by no means sure it is not intended as a joke. Just, for instance, take that one feature of the drunkard “lying on the grass,” and “crying himself sober,” while, led by their conductor, the youthful members of the choir sang him all the songs they knew! Such a scene would make the fortune of a farce with Mr. Toole to play the tipsy man.
VI.—Betting Gamblers.
CHAPTER XXII.
“ADVERTISING TIPSTERS” AND “BETTING COMMISSIONERS.”
The Vice of Gambling on the increase among the Working-classes—Sporting “Specs”—A “Modus”—Turf Discoveries—Welshers—The Vermin of the Betting-field—Their Tactics—The Road to Ruin.
There can be no doubt that the vice of gambling is on the increase amongst the English working-classes. Of this no better proof is afforded than in the modern multiplication of those newspapers specially devoted to matters “sportive.” Twenty years ago there were but three or four sporting newspapers published in London; now there are more than a dozen. It would, however, be unfair to regard the rapid growth of these questionable prints as an undoubted symptom of the deepening depravity of the masses. The fact is this: that though the national passion for gambling, for betting, and wagering, and the excitement of seeing this or that “event” decided, has increased of late, it is chiefly because the people have much more leisure now than of yore. They must have amusement for their disengaged hours, and they naturally seek that for which they have the greatest liking.
It is a comforting reflection, however, that in their sports and pastimes Englishmen, and especially Londoners, of the present generation, are less barbarous than those of the last. Setting horse-racing aside, anyone who now takes up for perusal the ordinary penny sporting paper will find therein nothing more repugnant to his sensibilities, as regards human performers, than records of swimming, and cricket, and running, and walking, and leaping; and as regards four-footed creatures, the discourse will be of dogs “coursing” or racing, or killing rats in a pit. In the present enlightened age we do not fight cocks and “shy” at hens tied to a stake at the Shrove-Tuesday fair; neither do we fight dogs, or pit those sagacious creatures to bait bulls. In a newspaper before me, not a quarter of a century old, there is a minute and graphic account of a bull-baiting, at which in the pride of his heart the owner of a bull-dog did a thing that in the present day would insure for him twelve months of hard labour on the treadmill, but which in the “good old time” was merely regarded as the act of a spirited sportsman. A white bull-dog, “Spurt” by name, had performed prodigies of valour against a bear brought before him and before a crowded audience. Finally, however, the exhausted creature bungled in a delicate act of the performance, and those who had bet against the dog exasperated its master by clapping their hands. “D’ye think that he can’t do it?” roared the dog’s owner; “why, I’ll take ten to one in twenties that he does it on three legs—with one foot chopped off.” “Done!” somebody cried. Whereon the valiant bulldog owner called for a cleaver, and setting the left fore-paw of his faithful dog on the ledge of the pit, he hacked it off at a blow. Then instantly he urged the creature at the bear again, and, raging with pain, it at once sprang at its shaggy opponent and pinned it.
It cannot be denied that occasionally there still appears in the sporting newspapers some brief account of a “mill” that has recently taken place between those once highly-popular gentlemen—the members of the “P.R.” But public interest in this department of “sport” is fast dying out; and not one reader in a hundred would care to wade through column after column of an account of how the Brompton Bison smashed the snout of the Bermondsey Pet; and how the latter finally gained the victory by battering his opponent’s eyes until he was blind and “came up groggy,” and could not even see his man, let alone avoid the sledgehammer blows that were still pounding his unhappy ribs. There are left very few indeed of those individuals who, as “sportsmen,” admire Raw-Head-and-Bloody-Bones as master of the ceremonies.