Life in the Clearings versus the Bush Part 6

While this curious colloquy was going on, my poor Irish friend sat on thorns, and tried, by throwing in a little judicious blarney, to soften the thrusts of the home truths to which he had unwittingly exposed me.

Between every pause in the conversation, he broke in with--"I am sure Mrs. M--- is a fine-looking woman--a very young-looking woman for her age. Any person might know at a glance that those teeth were her own.

They look too natural to be false."

Now, I am certain that the poor little woman never meant to wound my feelings, nor give me offence. She literally spoke her thoughts, and I was too much amused with the whole scene to feel the least irritated by her honest bluntness. She expected to find in an author something quite out of the common way, and I did not come up at all to her expectations.

Her opinion of me was not more absurd than the remarks of two ladies who, after calling upon me for the first time, communicated the result of their observations to a mutual friend.

"We have seen Mrs. M---, and we were so surprised to find her just like other people!"

"What did you expect to see in her?"

"Oh, something very different. We were very much disappointed."

"That she was not sitting upon her head," said my friend, smiling; "I like Mrs. M---, because she is in every respect like other people; and I should not have taken her for a blue-stocking at all."

The sin of authorship meets with little toleration in a new country.

Several persons of this cla.s.s, finding few minds that could sympathise with them, and enter into their literary pursuits, have yielded to despondency, or fallen victims to that insidious enemy of souls, _Canadian whisky_. Such a spirit was the unfortunate Dr. Huskins, late of Frankfort on the river Trent. The fate of this gentleman, who was a learned and accomplished man of genius, left a very sad impression on my mind. Like too many of that highly-gifted, but unhappy fraternity, he struggled through his brief life, overwhelmed with the weight of undeserved calumny, and his peace of mind embittered with the most galling neglect and poverty.

The want of sympathy experienced by him from men of his own cla.s.s, pressed sorely upon the heart of the sensitive man of talent and refinement; he found very few who could appreciate or understand his mental superiority, which was p.r.o.nounced as folly and madness by the ignorant persons about him. A new country, where all are rushing eagerly forward in order to secure the common necessaries of life, is not a favourable soil in which to nourish the bright fancies and delusive dreams of the poet. Dr. Huskins perceived his error too late, when he no longer retained the means to remove to a more favourable spot,--and his was not a mind which could meet and combat successfully with the ills of life. He endeavoured to bear proudly the evils of his situation, but he had neither the energy nor the courage to surmount them. He withdrew himself from society, and pa.s.sed the remainder of his days in a solitary, comfortless, log hut on the borders of the wilderness. Here he drooped and died, as too many like him have died, heartbroken and alone.

A sad mystery involves the last hours of his life: it is said that he and Dr. Sutor, another talented but very dissipated man, had entered into a compact to drink until they both died. Whether this statement is true cannot now be positively ascertained. It is certain, however, that Dr. Sutor was found dead upon the floor of the miserable shanty occupied by his friend, and that Dr. Huskins was lying on his bed in the agonies of death. Could the many fine poems composed by Dr. Huskins in his solitary exile, be collected and published, we feel a.s.sured that posterity would do him justice, and that his name would rank high among the bards of the green isle.

To The Memory of Dr. Huskins.

"Neglected son of genius! thou hast pa.s.s'd In broken-hearted loneliness away; And one who prized thy talents, fain would cast The cypress-wreath above thy nameless clay.

Ah, could she yet thy spirit's flight delay, Till the cold world, relenting from its scorn, The fadeless laurel round thy brows should twine, Crowning the innate majesty of mind, By crushing poverty and sorrow torn.

Peace to thy mould'ring ashes, till revive Bright memories of thee in deathless song!

True to the dead, Time shall relenting give The meed of fame deserved--delayed too long, And in immortal verse the Bard again shall live!"

Alas! this frightful vice of drinking prevails throughout the colony to an alarming extent. Professional gentlemen are not ashamed of being seen issuing from the bar-room of a tavern early in the morning, or of being caught reeling home from the same sink of iniquity late at night. No sense of shame seems to deter them from the pursuit of their darling sin. I have heard that some of these regular topers place brandy beside their beds that, should they awake during the night, they may have within their reach the fiery potion for which they are bartering body and soul. Some of these persons, after having been warned of their danger by repeated fits of _delirium tremens_, have joined the tee-totallers; but their abstinence only lasted until the re-establishment of their health enabled them to return to their old haunts, and become more hardened in their vile habits than before. It is to be questioned whether the signing of any pledge is likely to prove a permanent remedy for this great moral evil. If an appeal to the heart and conscience, and the fear of incurring the displeasure of an offended G.o.d, are not sufficient to deter a man from becoming an active instrument in the ruin of himself and family, no forcible restraint upon his animal desires will be likely to effect a real reformation.

It appears to me that the temperance people begin at the wrong end of the matter, by restraining the animal propensities before they have convinced the mind. If a man abstain from drink only as long as the accursed thing is placed beyond his reach, it is after all but a negative virtue, to be overcome by the first strong temptation. Were incurable drunkards treated as lunatics, and a proper asylum provided for them in every large town, and the management of their affairs committed to their wives or adult children, the bare idea of being confined under such a plea would operate more forcibly upon them than by signing a pledge, which they can break or resume according to the caprice of the moment.

A drunkard, while under the influence of liquor, is a madman in every sense of the word, and his mental aberration is often of the most dangerous kind. Place him and the confirmed maniac side by side, and it would be difficult for a stranger to determine which was the most irrational of the two.

A friend related to me the following anecdote of a physician in his native town:--This man, who was eminent in his profession, and highly respected by all who knew him, secretly indulged in the pernicious habit of dram-drinking, and after a while bade fair to sink into a hopeless drunkard. At the earnest solicitations of his weeping wife and daughter he consented to sign the pledge, and not only ardent spirits but every sort of intoxicating beverage was banished from the house.

The use of alcohol is allowed in cases of sickness to the most rigid disciplinarians, and our doctor began to find that keeping his pledge was a more difficult matter than he had at first imagined. Still, for _examples' sake_, of course, a man of his standing in society had only joined for _examples' sake_; he did not like openly to break it. He therefore feigned violent toothache, and sent the servant girl over to a friend's house to borrow a small phial of brandy.

The brandy was sent, with many kind wishes for the doctor's speedy recovery. The phial now came every night to be refilled; and the doctor's toothache seemed likely to become a case of incurable _tic douloureux_. His friend took the alarm. He found it both expensive and inconvenient, providing the doctor with his nightly dose; and wishing to see how matters really stood, he followed the maid and the brandy one evening to the doctor's house.

He entered unannounced. It was as he suspected. The doctor was lounging in his easy chair before the fire, indulging in a hearty fit of laughter over some paragraph in a newspaper, which he held in his hand.

"Ah, my dear J---, I am so glad to find you so well. I thought by your sending for the brandy, that you were dying with the toothache."

The doctor, rather confounded--"Why, yes; I have been sadly troubled with it of late. It does not come on, however, before eight o'clock, and if I cannot get a mouthful of brandy, I never can get a wink of sleep all night."

"Did you ever have it before you took the pledge?"

"Never," said the doctor emphatically.

"Perhaps the cold water does not agree with you?"

The doctor began to smell a rat, and fell vigorously to minding the fire.

"I tell you what it is, J---," said the other; "the toothache is a _nervous affection_. It is the _brandy_ that is the _disease_.

It may cure you of an imaginary toothache; but I a.s.sure you, that it gives your wife and daughter an _incurable heartache_."

The doctor felt at that moment a strange palpitation at his own. The scales fell suddenly from his eyes, and for the first time his conduct appeared in its true light. Returning the bottle to his friend, he said, very humbly--"Take it out of my sight; I feel my error now. I will cure their heartache by curing myself of this beastly vice."

The doctor, from that hour, became a temperate man. He soon regained his failing practice, and the esteem of his friends. The appeal of his better feelings effected a permanent change in his habits, which signing the pledge had not been able to do. To keep up an appearance of consistency he had had recourse to a mean subterfuge, while touching his heart produced a lasting reform.

Drinking is the curse of Canada, and the very low price of whisky places the temptation constantly in every one's reach. But it is not by adopting by main force the Maine Liquor law, that our legislators will be able to remedy the evil. Men naturally resist any oppressive measures that infringe upon their private rights, even though such measures are adopted solely for their benefit. It is not wise to thrust temperance down a man's throat; and the surest way to make him a drunkard is to insist upon his being sober. The zealous advocates of this measure (and there are many in Canada) know little of their own, or the nature of others. It would be the fruitful parent of hypocrisy, and lay the foundation of crimes still greater than the one it is expected to cure.

To wean a fellow-creature from the indulgence of a gross sensual propensity, as I said before, we must first convince the mind: the reform must commence there. Merely withdrawing the means of gratification, and treating a rational being like a child, will never achieve a great moral conquest.

In pagan countries, the missionaries can only rely upon the sincerity of the converts, who are educated when children in their schools; and if we wish to see drunkenness banished from our towns and cities, we must prepare our children from their earliest infancy to resist the growing evil.

Show your boy a drunkard wallowing in the streets, like some unclean animal in the mire. Every side-walk, on a market-day, will furnish you with examples. Point out to him the immorality of such a degrading position; make him fully sensible of all its disgusting horrors. Tell him that G.o.d has threatened in words of unmistakable import, that he will exclude such from his heavenly kingdom. Convince him that such loathsome impurity must totally unfit the soul for communion with its G.o.d--that such a state may truly be looked upon as the second death--the foul corruption and decay of both body and soul. Teach the child to pray against drunkenness, as he would against murder, lying, and theft; shew him that all these crimes are often comprised in this one, which in too many cases has been the fruitful parent of them all.

When the boy grows to be a man, and mingles in the world of men, he will not easily forget the lesson impressed on his young heart. He will remember his early prayers against this terrible vice--will recall that disgusting spectacle--and will naturally shrink from the same contamination. Should he be overcome by temptation, the voice of conscience will plead with him in such decided tones that she will be heard, and he will be ashamed of becoming the idiot thing he once feared and loathed.

The Drunkard's Return.

"Oh! ask not of my morn of life, How dark and dull it gloom'd o'er me; Sharp words and fierce domestic strife, Robb'd my young heart of all its glee,-- The sobs of one heart-broken wife, Low, stifled moans of agony, That fell upon my shrinking ear, In hollow tones of woe and fear; As crouching, weeping, at her side, I felt my soul with sorrow swell, In pity begg'd her not to hide The cause of grief I knew too well; Then wept afresh to hear her pray That death might take us both away!

"Away from whom? Alas! What ill Press'd the warm life-hopes from her heart?

Was she not young and lovely still?

What made the frequent tear-drops start From eyes, whose light of love could fill My inmost soul, and bade me part From noisy comrades in the street, To kiss her cheek, so cold and pale, To clasp her neck, and hold her hand, And list the oft-repeated tale Of woes I could not understand; Yet felt their force, as, day by day, I watch'd her fade from life away.

"And _he_, the cause of all this woe, Her mate--the father of her child, In dread I saw him come and go, With many an awful oath reviled; And from harsh word, and harsher blow, (In answer to her pleadings mild,) I shrank in terror, till I caught From her meek eyes th' unwhisper'd thought-- 'Bear it, my Edward, for thy mother's sake!

He cares not, in his sullen mood, If this poor heart with anguish break.'

That look was felt, and understood By her young son, thus school'd to bear His wrongs, to soothe her deep despair.

"Oh, how I loath'd him!--how I scorn'd His idiot laugh, or demon frown,-- His features bloated and deform'd; The jests with which he sought to drown The consciousness of sin, or storm'd, To put reproof or anger down.

Oh, 'tis a fearful thing to feel Stern, sullen hate, the bosom steel 'Gainst one whom nature bids us prize The first link in her mystic chain; Which binds in strong and tender ties The heart, while reason rules the brain, And mingling love with holy fear, Renders the parent doubly dear.

"I cannot bear to think how deep The hatred was I bore him then; But he has slept his last long sleep, And I have trod the haunts of men; Have felt the tide of pa.s.sion sweep Through manhood's fiery heart, and when By strong temptation toss'd and tried, I thought how that lost father died; Unwept, unpitied, in his sin; Then tears of burning shame would rise, And stern remorse awake within A host of mental agonies.

He fell--by one dark vice defiled; Was I more pure--his erring child?

"Yes--erring child; but to my tale.

My mother loved that lost one still, From the deep fount which could not fail (Through changes dark, from good to ill,) Her woman's heart--and sad and pale, She yielded to his stubborn will; Perchance she felt remonstrance vain,-- The effort to resist gave pain.

But carefully she hid her grief From him, the idol of her youth; And fondly hoped, against belief, That her deep love and stedfast truth Would touch his heart, and win him back From Folly's dark and devious track.

"Vain hope! the drunkard's heart is hard as stone, No grief disturbs his selfish, sensual joy; His wife may weep, his starving children groan, And Poverty with cruel gripe annoy.

He neither hears, nor heeds their famish'd moan, The glorious wine-cup owns no base alloy.

Surrounded by a low, degraded train, His fiendish laugh defiance bids to pain; He hugs the cup--more dear than friends to him-- Nor sees stern ruin from the goblet rise, Nor flames of h.e.l.l careering o'er the brim,-- The lava flood that glads his bloodshot eyes Poisons alike his body and his soul, Till reason lies self-murder'd in the bowl.

"It was a dark and fearful winter night, Loud roar'd the tempest round our hovel home; Cold, hungry, wet, and weary was our plight, And still we listen'd for his step to come.

My poor sick mother!--'twas a piteous sight To see her shrink and shiver, as our dome Shook to the rattling blast; and to the door She crept, to look along the bleak, black moor.