Unvarnished Tales - Free Audiobook

XII.
A DIGNIFIED DIPSOMANIAC.

“A MOST remarkable man, sir,” said the Secretary of the Teetotal Union to the President.

“But don’t he strike you as being a trifle—a trifle soiled, eh?” asked the President, glancing down at his own immaculate shirt-cuffs.

“N—no,” replied the Secretary, hesitatingly.  “He’s a most dignified man—most dignified.  An’ in his dress shoot most impressive.”

“But really, now, Mr. Bottle, I thought, d’ye know, that he rather smelt of beer.  Just a little, eh?” suggested the President.

“Beer!” echoed the Secretary, in a tone of mingled astonishment and indignation.  “Beer!  Why, sir, he’s one of the most ardent spirits engaged in the teetotal cause.  He has been one of us for upwards of ten years or more.”

“And before that, eh?”

“He was on the Press.”

“Hum!” observed the President.

“But he’s quite reformed now,” answered the Secretary, to the objection implied in the President’s monosyllable.

“And you say he is really eloquent?”

“Remarkably so—very, remarkably so.  In fact, I may say a puffick J. B. Gough.”

“Has he written in favour of the cause?”

“Largely, sir.  His tracks is well known.”

“Then send him in again.”

The subject of this conversation—which took place in the Committee Room of the Teetotal Union, in Aldersgate Street, City—stood in an outer chamber, gravely contemplative.  All that Mr. Bottle, the Secretary, had urged in favour of his dignified demeanour, was quite justified by his appearance.  But the reflections of Alderman Lamb, the President, were also to a great extent borne out by what little of him was visible to the naked eye.  Indeed, the remarkable man was a trifle more than soiled.  He was very dirty.  He might be described as an old-young man.  He had curly grey hair, thin and rather distinguished features, a small nervous hand, an imperturbable solemnity of expression, and a dignity of pose worthy the immortal Mr. Turveydrop.

At the bidding of the Secretary, he re-entered the sanctum of the President, to whom he bowed low and impressively.  He sat in the chair offered to him, and looked at Mr. Lamb as though he would have said to that worthy Alderman and Spectacle Maker, “Will you have your case disposed of now, or do you wish it sent to the Assizes?”

“Our Mr. Bottle,” began the President, as Mr. Browley, the remarkable man, bowed condescendingly to that functionary, “our Mr. Bottle suggests that you should temporarily fill the place of one of our regular lecturers.  A lecture is announced for to-morrow night at the Temperance Hall, New Cut.  The remuneration is small—two pounds, in fact.  Will you accept the offer?”

“Sir,” replied Mr. Browley, in solemn tones, “you honour me.  I accept.”

“I,” went on the Alderman, “will be in the chair.”

“You overwhelm me with honours,” replied Mr. Browley, with another obeisance.

“And may I ask,” said the President, “the title of your lecture?”

“With pleasure, sir.  Indeed, you have a right to know.  I call it an Oration.  It is entitled, ‘The Demon Drink.’”

“Capital, capital,” said the Alderman, rubbing his hands as if relishing the idea of being made personally acquainted with the Demon in question; “and you won’t forget the hour—eight o’clock at the Temperance Hall.  Good-bye, Mr. Browley; glad to have made your acquaintance.”

But Mr. Browley made no motion of withdrawal.  With a slight movement of the right hand he signalled that he was about to speak.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but there is a slight preliminary.  I have made it a rule in dealing with religious and philanthropic societies always to extort a small sum in advance as a pledge of good faith.  I am not in any want of money, nor do I doubt your ability and willingness to pay it.  But I have made it a rule, and I invariably insist on compliance with it.  If you will pay me half a sovereign—not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—I will accept that amount.”

“Certainly, my dear sir.  Mr. Bottle, pray let the gentleman have ten shillings, or a sovereign if he wants it.”

“I said half a sovereign,” said the lecturer, impressively.

That sum was handed to him by Mr. Bottle, who took his receipt, and Mr. Browley appeared once more in the outer air.

For a remarkable man with a great interest in the temperance cause, it must be admitted that his first two visits were somewhat singular in their nature.  His first visit was to a pawnbroker’s, where he redeemed a dress suit pledged for three shillings, and his next visit was to a public-house, where he called for a pint of bitter and Burton—in a pewter.

“That’s both meat and drink,” he murmured, as he licked his lips.  It was evident that the remarkable man spoke from conviction, for he hardly passed a tavern on his way from town to the remoter slums of Islington without eating and drinking after the same fashion—with this slight variation, that at the last half-dozen houses of call he substituted for the beer that decoction which Mr. Eccles alludes to as “cool, refreshing gin.”

He reeled at last into his own street, and staggered into the one room occupied by himself and his wife.  He threw the bundle of dress clothes on the bed.

“Maggie! get me that ‘Demon Drink.’  I’m going to deliver the ‘Demon’ to-morrow.  D’ye hear?”

“But, John, remember what the doctor said at the hospital.  All excitement is so bad for you.”

“Damn the doctors.  Produce the ‘Demon,’ d’ye hear?”

And so alternately damning the doctors and demanding the Demon, he sank on the bed and snored the snore of the drunk.  She knelt by his side and wept, and—God help her!—prayed.  She remembered him, you see, when he returned from College with his University honours thick upon him, and before the Demon had got him—tight.

There was a great audience the next night at the New Cut Hall, and Mr. Browley, in his dress clothes, looked somewhat more presentable than on the previous day.  His wife had managed to procure linen, and the worthy Alderman in the chair was quite pleased and encouraged by the improved appearance of the lecturer; though it is true he once whispered to Mr. Bottle that he thought he detected a very strong smell of drink in the room.

Mr. Browley was in due course presented to the large and highly expectant audience.  And it must be admitted that rarely had an audience the opportunity of listening to an oration of such force and vigour.  The whole figure of the lecturer seemed to change, his face glowed, the assumption of hauteur left him as he assailed the drink Demon and portrayed his victims.  Now a torrent of applause followed some well-aimed hit at the vendors of drink, and now some pathetic anecdote drew tears from the eyes of his auditors.  The Alderman was enchanted, and applauded vociferously; now agreeing with his secretary, that Mr. Browley was indeed a very remarkable man.

Presently the lecturer proceeded to deal with the awful disease which turns the habitual drunkard into a dangerous maniac.  He described the progress and effect of delirium tremens.  His eyes now flashed wildly as he portrayed to the affrighted audience devils from the pit of hell; and goblin forms and pursuing shapes of beast and reptile.  His body swayed to and fro: he spoke in gasps; his mouth seemed parched and hot.  Now his eye-balls appeared to shoot from his head, and his arms were moved in front of him as if to ward off the creatures of his fancies.  The effect was electrical.  The audience rose at him, and followed his effort with long-continued applause.

In the middle of it all the lecturer’s face appeared to grow livid, his eyes fixed, and his limbs stiff.  He placed his left hand to his temple, and with his stretched forefinger pointed in front of him.  Then he moaned as a wild animal moans in pain, and fell backward on the platform.  A wild shriek burst from the back of the hall as his wife rushed forward, jumped upon the platform, and threw herself on the prostrate body.

A doctor arrived in due course.

“Drunk?” inquired Mr. Bottle, when he had examined him.

“No.  Dead!” answered the physician.