Bouverie, whose good opinion Digby had gained, spoke to him on the subject.
“I tall you this, Heathcote,” he said, “when I was a little chap, I knew of a good number of big fellows who carried on much as these are doing. They thought themselves very fine fellows, and so did I. Had I not had a friend, who warned me to keep free from them, I might have done the same. There were about a dozen of them; the youngest was only two or three years older than I was. They all grew up; some went into the navy, others the army, and others abroad, in different capacities. Out of the whole number, four only are now alive; and of those four, one was dismissed from the navy, and another from the army, for drunkenness, and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; a third is a confirmed invalid, with a broken constitution; and one only, whom I meet occasionally, has given up his bad practices; and he never fails to say, that he hopes I do not imitate the bad example he set me, as I may be sure that the momentary satisfaction, I may fancy I should obtain, would make but a poor amends for all the suffering and wretchedness of mind and body I should be sure to reap in the end, and which he had gone through. It never occurred to me that a little smoking and drinking, and merely loose conversation, could do a fellow much harm. One might, I thought, easily give up the first, and, of course, with grave people and with ladies, one wouldn’t talk loosely. But from what my friend told me, and from what I found out myself, I now know the consequences are sure to be bad. With regard to drinking, I tell you how it is. Beer, spirits, and wine are stimulants, and excite the lining of the stomach into which they are poured. Nothing so quickly acquires a bad habit as the stomach, because it has not got reason to guide it, and is, besides, full of sensitive organs. When once it is stimulated—that is, excited—it wants to be excited again; and so one says, I must give it a little more drink. If it has been excited by brandy, or rum, or gin, it generally longs for the same thing. It acts on the mind, remember, much more powerfully than the mind acts on it. If it gave pain at once, people would not drink; but it excites in a pleasant way, and the excitement goes on increasing till the brain is confused, and a person does not know what he is about. When the excitement goes off, while the nerves are returning to nearly their former state, then comes the pain. These nerves, understand, run all the way from the coats of the stomach up into the brain. They do not return quite to their former state, at all events, for a long time, and so have a longing for more excitement; and thus if a person can get spirits, or wine, or beer, he pours some down his throat to gratify them. The more these sensitive nerves are excited, the more stimulating liquid they desire; and thus, acting through the brain, the more they make their owner wish for. So he goes on increasing the frequency of the times in which he gratifies them, and the quantity of liquor he pours down, because that which at first gratified them will do so no longer. This goes on till a man becomes what is called a confirmed drunkard. The younger a person is, the more sensitive are all his organs, and therefore the more likely he is to establish an irritable state of stomach, if he stimulates it in any way. Now, these fellows don’t actually get drunk, but their stomachs will not long be content with the quantity of liquor they pour into them; and so they will go on increasing till they not only get drunk, but become miserable drunkards, on whom no one will depend, and who will very soon sink into early graves, loathed and despised by those who once cared most for them. There, Heathcote, I have told you something I know about the subject, not in a very learned way, but it is the truth. I might tell you a great deal more. Smoking, I own, is not nearly so bad; but common tobacco irritates the lining or coats of the stomach, and makes it wish for drink; and so I object to it. And I’ll tell you what, also, bad conversation, such as those fellows indulge in, irritates and excites the mind, and so acting on the body, excites all the lower and grosser passions, and keeps out pure and ennobling thoughts. You must understand, Digby, that the mind cannot stand still. I am afraid that it has a tendency to becoming debased; and it requires all a person’s resolution, energy, ay, and prayers too, my boy, to soar upwards to the condition it is capable of enjoying. The only safe course is to keep out all bad thoughts, or even light thoughts, and to resist every bad propensity from the very first, and to keep away from all temptations, from all examples, from everything, indeed, which may encourage them. I can tell you that so pernicious, so terrible are the results of the habits in which those fellows indulge, that I would far rather see my younger brother in his grave than know that he had become their companion, and was running the risk of being contaminated by them. There, Heathcote, I will not talk any more about the matter now. Perhaps I have said even more now than you can understand. Trust me, however, that it is the advice I would give my youngest brother, or any boy in whom I might feel a deep interest.”
These remarks, whether entirely understood or not at the time, did make a deep impression on Digby’s mind; and he thanked Bouverie for speaking so unreservedly to him. “But how did the other fellows, of whom you were speaking, die?” asked Digby. “Perhaps they had reformed, or would have reformed, had they lived.”
“What they might have done no mortal can venture to say,” answered Bouverie, gravely. “They had not reformed, but, on the contrary, had become worse and worse, and one and all of them died miserably. The deaths of some were laid to the climates to which they went; but had their constitutions not been completely weakened, they might easily have withstood the attacks of the climate. Two died from excessive drinking, another was killed in a drunken brawl, and a fourth broke his neck when unconscious of what he was about, while two more died miserably, horribly. I need not tell you now; but they had their own vicious propensities alone to blame.”
“I believe all you have told me, and how I wish that you would speak to others in the way you have done to me,” exclaimed Digby. “What shall we do when you go, Bouverie?” As he spoke, the tears came into his eyes.
“Remember what I have said to you; and let the right-thinking boys keep as much as possible to themselves,” answered Bouverie (he was going at the end of the half). “I will let you know where I am, and you must write to me and let me know how things go on, and I will write to you, and give you my advice. I shall depend a good deal upon you, remember. Already many fellows look to you as a leader; you must do your best to keep that position, not only by your daring and activity, but by your moral conduct, by your steadiness and general good behaviour. As a proof of it, Farnham and others have been arranging a game of ‘Follow-my-leader’ for to-morrow, across the country somewhere; and, after discussing a number of fellows to act as leader, some much older than you are, they unanimously fixed on you.”
Digby could not be but pleased at this, especially from the importance Bouverie attached to the circumstance. That very evening, Farnham, Newland, Ranger, and several other fellows came up to him.
“Heathcote, the weather is still cool, and we have all been talking of a grand Follow-my-leader run;” began Newland.
“Sibley, who was one of our best leaders, is lame, and can’t run, and Cooper won’t, and the fellows say that Hume, and Freeland, and Rolls, and Elmore don’t give sport enough, and funk to go over difficult places, and can’t jump half the brooks about us, and so it was agreed that the chances are you would make a better leader than any of them.”
“That’s not exactly it, Newland,” interposed Farnham; “you know that when some one asked you to lead, you said, that from the way Heathcote had followed the last time we had a run, and from the capital manner in which he plays all the games he learns, that you were certain that he would prove about the best and most plucky leader we have had in our time. Then, Heathcote, say you will accept the office, and settle the matter.”