Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 5.
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I found Granger at his office on the next day.
He was writing, and did not turn to see who had come in until I had waited for some moments. His color heightened as he recognized me. There was a look of shame in his face, and considerable embarrassment in his manner.
"Good morning," said I.
"Good morning," he responded, in a dull, cold way. There was not the slightest invitation to friendly confidence. I felt him pushing me off, almost as distinctly as if his action had been physical instead of mental.
"Just looked in to see how you were," I remarked. "All right, I hope?"
He turned a little from me, not making any reply. While I was still in doubt as to what it were best for me to do or say, a client came in to consult him on business, which gave me an opportunity to retire from the office. I was glad of this, for I was not sure as to Granger's real state of mind; nor half so confident as I had been a year before, that I could give the wise counsel which a man in his condition so greatly needed. That he had faithfully tried the prescription which I gave him then, I knew; and there was this to be said in its favor, by its help he had stood firm for a whole year — and was not that a great deal? True, but why had he gained nothing in moral and spiritual power during all this rule of thewill over his sensual nature? He should have been stronger, more self-confident, more really invincible at the end of a year than at the beginning; and yet, the will off guard, in some moment of assault, and he was again in the hands of his enemy.
One conclusion forced itself upon me. This man's condition was worse than before he made his resolute and, for a time, successful effort to reform. The will-power, in which he had trusted so confidently, had failed in strength and vigilance, and left him a prey to the in-rushing appetite for alcohol. Even if faith in himself were not destroyed, it must be a weaker faith and less able to contend with appetite, which, through another victory, had gained a new force.
All this, as I dwelt on the subject, grew clearer and clearer to my mind. I could see how a resolute will might hold a man above consent in any and every temptation by which he might be assailed; and I could also see how, if the will betrayed the man, and he fell — he would be weaker for the fall, and more easily overcome in a new temptation. What then? What hope for him? There would be an inflowing of strength from God with every subsequent effort the man might make to get free from the dominion of evil; but would not the reception of this strength and the ability to use it, be in a steadily diminishing ratio; and would not the power of alcohol increase with every indulgence?
My faith in man's will had received a shock. There was an element of weakness somewhere. Why should God fail to give the requisite strength — when the effort was sincere? Did he indeed govern, as many taught, by mere arbitrary laws; affording help to the weak and perishing only in the degree of their compliance with certain conditions? Or, were the conditions not arbitrary but essential and in the very nature of things? If God is good and wise — loving and compassionate — ever seeking to save to the very uttermost, must not this be so? God is love — love. Heart and soul held to this. But, how was the sustaining strength of this love, to make itself a living force in man? How? I could not see it clearly. Once it had been very clear; but my thoughts were in confusion now.
I had reached the door of my own office, and was about entering, when a sudden movement in the street attracted my attention. People were running together, in an excited manner.
"Only a drunken brawl," said a man who was standing near me.
"That all." And I passed into my office. Only a drunken brawl! I had dismissed the incident as of little account when I was startled by the sound of tramping feet and dissonant voices at my very door; and in a moment after, three men entered bearing the body of a man, deathly pale, and with the blood streaming from a wound in his head. I recognized him as a well-known and prominent citizen.
A doctor was sent for, and after the wound was dressed, the gentleman was removed to his own home.
Only a drunken brawl! An effort was made to keep the affair out of the newspapers, but not with entire success. In one afternoon paper, this account appeared:
"Assault on a prominent citizen. — A dastardly assault was made this morning on our esteemed fellow citizen, Harvey Leonard, Esq., by a ruffianly fellow named Groot. It occurred just in front of Egbert's saloon. Mr. Leonard had just left the saloon, when Groot dealt him a severe blow from behind, knocking him down. In falling, his head struck the curbstone, and he received an ugly wound above the temple. Mr. Leonard was carried into Frederick Lyon's office, where the wound was dressed by Dr. Gerhard. He was then taken to his own home. We learn that the immediate occasion of this assault was a political argument into which Mr. Leonard permitted himself to be drawn by Groot, and in which both of them — they had been drinking rather freely, we are sorry to say — got angry and called hard names. Mr. Leonard had the best of the argument, and Groot revenged himself, after the ruffianly fashion, by knocking him down. He may thank his lucky stars, if he doesn't have to stand a trial for manslaughter; for no one can tell what may be the result of a severe concussion of the brain. When removed to his home, we understand that Mr. Leonard was in a half-comatose state."
I had just read this account of the affair, and was thinking of the mortification Mr. Leonard's family must suffer, should it happen to meet their eyes — there were grown-up sons and daughters — when, to my surprise, Mr. Granger entered my office. He smiled faintly as he came in, the smile dying off slowly, and leaving his face very grave.
"I want to have another talk with you, Lyon," he said. "This is a shocking affair of Leonard's, isn't it?"
"Shocking and sad," I replied.
"I know this Groot. He's peaceable enough when sober, but a devil incarnate when drunk. They say that Leonard is in a dangerous condition."
"So the Telegraph intimates."
"I don't know when anything has given me such a shock. It might have happened to me, as well as to Leonard. Why, only a few evenings ago I had some sharp words with the fellow. I can remember the glitter of his angry eyes. He would have struck me down, if he had dared. Liquor makes fiends of some men, who are as quiet and peaceable as lambs when sober. I've often thought of that. Can you explain it, Mr. Lyon?"
"I have no settled theory of my own on the subject; but in a book which I read not long ago, I saw an explanation that set me to thinking."
"What was it?"
"The writer had been speaking of the terrible transformations wrought in men by alcohol. How the once tender and considerate husband, became changed often into a cruel fiend. How the loving father, grew indifferent or brutal towards his children; the good citizen, turned into a social pest; and the esteemed neighbor, into an offence to all around him. How in everything, the order of life was changed; the goodly tree that once gave such generous fruit — now becoming as a thorn or bramble. He then said:
"We marvel at these dreadful transformations, wondering how inebriation can change men into fiends; how alcohol, a mere substance in nature, and without moral force, can, through its action on the brain, evolve a new moral quality — intense, destructive and infernal. The fact, no one questions, for it stands all the while confronting and challenging us in a thousand terrible and disgusting forms; and yet, for all this, men dally with the subtle agent of Hell, giving it a lodgment in body and brain, and allowing it to gain a large and still larger action among the vital forces, which it never touches but to work disorder. They see how it hurts their neighbors; but, strangely enough, do not fear for themselves!
"There is a truth about this matter which few consider — a truth that, if well understood, would hold thousands upon thousands away from that so-called moderate indulgence in alcohol which so often betrays to utter ruin. We speak of man as having rational freedom. The seat of this freedom and rationality is the brain, the physical organism through which it acts and influences, the outer life. If the brain is hurt or disturbed, the mind's healthy action is at once lost; and it is remarkable that an evil force seems to get possession of the will, as soon as the rational equipoise is lost.
"Whatever disturbs a man's rational equipoise, gives evil forces a power over him which could not otherwise be obtained. Clearly, then, to disturb the brain's healthy action by the introduction of alcohol, through the blood, into that wonderfully delicate organ, is for a man to change so far the true heavenly order of his life, and to open the door for an influx of disorder and evil. The change may at first be very small, and the disorderly action scarcely perceived; but is it not clear to the dullest mind that, if the introduction of alcohol into the brain is continued day after day, and with gradual increase, the time must come when the man's rational control of himself will be lost. And when this takes, place, he becomes subject to infernal influences.'"
"This goes deeper than I had thought," said Granger, as I stopped speaking, "and involves more than I can now understand or admit. So much is true, at least, that when the brain is disturbed by alcoholic drink, a man comes under baleful influences, and is far more inclined to evil than to good. He is quick to take offence, and too often grows passionate, cruel and pitiless, hurting even his best beloved. Ah, what a cursed slavery it is!"
A painful agitation disturbed his face.
"And the hardest to break, of any into which a poor mortal can unhappily fall," I said.
"Is there any hope, Mr. Lyon?" An anxious, half-terrified look had come into his eyes, as of one who had felt himself borne helplessly away. "I am almost in despair. My will, in which I thought myself so strong, has failed, and I cannot trust it again. It is weaker for my fall, and must grow weaker and weaker every recurring fall. Do you know anything about inebriate asylums?"
He asked the question abruptly, and with the manner of one who had forced himself to do something from which he had been holding back with a strong reluctance.
"There are the Sanitarium at Media, and the New York State Inebriate Asylum at Binghampton," I answered.
"Do you know anything about either of them?"
I did not.
"Did you ever hear of anyone being cured at an Inebriate Asylum?"
"Oh, yes."
"Who? Can you find me the man?"
"No case has come under my personal observation; but I remember reading in a New York paper not long ago, a very strong report on the good work which had been done at the State Asylum."
"Do you know anything about the treatment?"
"Only in a general way. The patient is removed from old associations, and out of the reach of temptations which he had become too weak to resist; brought under the influence of new social, moral and intellectual conditions; and this for a period of time long enough to give him back the mastery over himself which had been lost. I remember, now, hearing a gentleman who had visited the Sanitarium at Media, say, that Dr. Parish regarded the cultivation of the finest qualities of the head and heart in his patients, as the true basis of a permanent recovery. He relied on that self-culture which promotes self-respect, a sense of moral obligation, and the development of a true manhood; and when this consciousness was realized, he considered the foundations laid for permanent safety."
The eager expression which was on Granger's face as I began my answer to his question, had left it by the time I ceased speaking.
"All a delusion," he replied. "If they can offer a man no other help, the number of their saved will be few."
"They are many, I have been told."
Granger shook his head doubtfully and gloomily.
"New associations," said I, "the cultivation of new tastes, more vigorous thinking in the right direction, a better understanding of the pathology of drunkenness, and above all, the formation of better habits, must help a man and give him a new advantage in the struggle with alcohol. These he will gain while under treatment in an asylum."
"Have I not had nearly all of these for a year, standing by their help and that of my strong will, in the very face of temptation? And yet there came an hour in which they were as threads of flax, in a candle flame! You don't know anything about the wild rush this passion of drink will sometimes make upon a man. It is like the sweep of an irresistible flood.
"Look here!" He drew from his vest pocket a slip of paper. "I cut this out of a newspaper today. It has frightened me. God only knows where I am drifting! It may be to a fate as dreadful. This slip of paper gives, briefly, a few facts in the life of a man who once stood high as a clergyman, and afterwards represented his State in Congress. But drink cursed him and he fell to the lowest level. Recovering himself, he enlisted in the temperance cause and became not only one of its warmest champions, but rose to the head of the Order of Good Templars in the State of Indiana. But he died before he had reached his fortieth year and from congestion of the brain, caused by a relapse into alcoholism!"
"Sad enough! Does the slip give his name?"
"Let me read it: Schuyler Colfax, in a recent letter referring to the death of J.J. Talbot, of Indianapolis, says: "He has made hundreds of eloquent and touching appeals for temperance all over our State within the past two years, but told me that the appetite would sometimes become so insatiate as to almost defy control, though he prayed on bended knee for strength to resist it. I remember the terrible picture of his own experience copied in the enclosed article. He delivered it here, to a crowded audience, hundreds of whom, like myself, were in tears, and he uttered it in desponding tones that seemed almost like the wail of the lost, and as if he felt his impending doom was inevitable.'"
"The extract referred to by Mr. Colfax, is as follows: 'But now that the struggle is over, I can survey the field and measure the losses. I had position high and holy. This demon tore from around me, the robes of my sacred office, and sent me forth churchless and godless, a very hissing and by-word among men. Afterward I had business, large and lucrative, and my voice in all large courts was heard pleading for justice, mercy and the right. I had moneys ample for all necessities, but they took wings and went to feed the coffers of thedevils which possessed me. I had a home adorned with all that wealth and the most exquisite taste could suggest. This devil crossed its threshold and the light faded from its chambers; the fire went out on the holiest of altars, and, leading me through its portals, despair walked forth with her, and sorrow and anguish lingered within. I had children, beautiful, to me at least, as a dream of the morning, and they had so entwined themselves around their father's heart that, no matter where it might wander, ever it came back to them on the bright wings of a father's undying love. This destroyer took their hands in his, and led them away. I had a wife whose charms of mind and person were such that to see her was to remember her, and to know her was to love her. For thirteen years we walked the rugged path of life together, rejoicing in its sunshine and sorrowing in its shade. This infernal monster couldn't spare me even this. I had a mother who for long, long years had not left her chair, a victim of suffering and disease, and her choicest delight was in the reflection that the lessons which she had taught at her knee, had taken root in the heart of her youngest born, and that he was useful to his fellows and an honor to her who bore him. But the thunderbolt reached even there, and there it did its most cruel work. Ah, me! never a word of reproach from her lips — only a tender caress; only a shadow of a great and unspoken grief gathering over the dear old face; only a trembling hand laid more lovingly on my head; only a closer clinging to the cross; only a more piteous appeal to Heaven if her cup at last were not full. And while her boy raved in his wild delirium two thousand miles away, the pitying angels pushed the golden gates ajar, and the mother of the drunkard entered into her rest.
"'And thus I stand: a clergyman without a church; a lawyer without brief or business; a father without a child; a husband without a wife; a son without a parent; a man with scarcely a friend; a soul without a hope — all swallowed up in the vortex of alcohol!'"
Several times, as he read, the voice of Mr. Granger gave way and he had to pause in order to recover himself. His hand shook so, that he was obliged to lay the slip of paper down on my table to keep it steady. His eyes were wet and his face strongly agitated.
"Such a devil is the devil of drink!" he said, bitterly, shutting his teeth hard and clenching his hands. "As cruel as Hell! As pitiless as the grave!"
"And knowing that he is so cruel and so pitiless, Mr. Granger, why place yourself for an instant in his power?"
He put his hand to his collar and drew it away from his throat, as if he were choking.
"The case seems well near hopeless." There was a mournful despondency in his voice.
"Say not so. That of Mr. Talbot is largely exceptional. There must have been with him an inherited appetite for alcohol."
I was looking at Mr. Granger, and noticed a change pass over his face, which had become suddenly pale. There was a startled expression in his eyes.
"A what?" he asked, a little breathlessly. "An inherited tendency."
"You don't imagine that there is anything in that, Mr. Lyon?"
"Undoubtedly there is," not at the moment thinking of any application by Mr. Granger of my remark to his own case. "The law of transmission is well established. Children not only inherit the physical likenesses and peculiarities of their parents — but their mental and moral qualities also. A depraved appetite in a father will, if indulged, be surely transmitted to his child."
"What hope for the child, then?"
"All hope, if he holds the appetite as a wild beast sleeping. It cannot hurt him while it sleeps. But let him beware how he awakens it with a taste of blood on its tongue. No inherited evil can hurt us — until we give it a new life in ourselves. Until then, it is only potential."
No light came back into Granger's countenance. There was about him a statue-like stillness and a fixedness of look, as though he were gazing at something strange and almost fearful.
"This gives the case a new aspect, Mr. Lyon." There was a forced quiet in his voice as he said this, turning to me as he spoke. I saw another change in his countenance, which now bore signs of conscious weakness. He gave me the impression of one who had folded his arms in the face of danger, all confidence in his personal effort gone. "A man may repent and be saved from the curse of his own transgressions, but if the sin of his father is laid upon him, what hope is there of salvation?"
The truth flashed on my mind. Here was a case of inherited appetite; and the victim's first suspicion of the fact had destroyed in him, for the time being, all remaining faith in the value of resistance.
"The case is only the harder," I replied; "but not desperate. There must be a more vigilant watch and ward; a more earnest and never-ceasing conflict; a daily death-grapple with the foe, if need be. And is not freedom from his infernal power, worth all this?"
"Worth it? Yes! Worth all a man may do or dare!"
There swept into his face the flush and strength of reviving confidence.
"Did the criminality of this thing ever strike you?" I asked, determined to try the force of a new incentive.
"Criminality?" He gave a kind of startle, and the warmer color which had come into his face died out.
"Nor the perpetual danger in which one who lets the devil of drink get possession of his brain stands of becoming a criminal before the law? The deeds of a devil are very apt to be devilish."
He set his eyes on me with a fixed stare, waiting my farther speech.
"Your profession makes you familiar with the causes of crime," I continued, "and you know that over seventy percent of the crimes and wicked acts which the law punishes by fines, imprisonments and death, are caused by inebriation."
He still gazed at me without speaking.
"Groot is an inoffensive man while sober, but a brutal fiend when drunk. When sober, he would not have injured a hair of Mr. Leonard's head — but when drunk, he made a cowardly and murderous assault upon him."
Granger drew a deep, quivering breath, but made no reply. I went on.
"No man who takes this devil into his brain, so giving him the control of will and action — can tell what may be the consequences. When he gets back to himself again, there may be blood upon his hand! Whose blood? Is the insane drunkard careful in his discriminations? Is the beloved wife, or sweet young daughter, or innocent babe, in no danger? What say the records of our courts?"
I paused, for the face of the lawyer had become intensely agitated, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.
"This criminal aspect of the case," I resumed, seeing that he made no response, "is one of the most serious that drinking presents; and is not the man who, to gratify a mere appetite which he knows, if indulged, will destroy his moral sense, and induce temporary insanity — as guilty of the crimes he may commit while intoxicated — as if he had committed them sober? A good citizen will see to it, that he does not wrong his neighbor; and a good husband and father will see to it, that his wife and children have care, protection and love. Is he a good citizen, or husband, or father, who voluntarily transforms himself into a cruel and destructive demon? The crime and responsibility of this thing cannot be escaped, Mr. Granger, and I press upon you, in all solemnity, this view of the whole sad question. If you go away from here, and, before reaching your home, allow alcohol to draw you back again into the vortex from which you are trying to escape, and on the outer edge of which you are resting now — who can tell whether tomorrow may not find you at the bar of justice, with crime written on your forehead!"
Granger started to his feet and threw up his hands with a bitter cry, then clasped them tightly across his forehead. He stood for several moments in this attitude, his manner that of one in swift debate.
"No, Mr. Lyon, not that — not that!" he said, huskily, as he turned to me. "Not a criminal!"
He sat down again, as if from sudden loss of strength. I saw that he was trembling.
"I trust not, Mr. Granger. But there is no more immunity for you, than for another. These drink-devils are no respecters of people. If you let them enslave you — no one can tell how soon, nor how deeply, they may lead you into crime and disgrace!"
He gave an involuntary shudder. After this, we talked more calmly. The idea of criminality became a central one in his mind. It had never before occurred to him. He was a man of sensitive honor; and this thought of crime against society, and against his family, wrought with him strongly. Not alone the crime of violence, as at first presented, but the crime of robbery towards those who had a claim on him for services and protection. I was careful to go over the ground with him as widely as possible; and especially to dwell on the great crime against wife and children which a man commits, who robs them through the waste and self-wrought incapacity of drunkenness.
Granger sat with me for a whole hour, gathering up motives for a new struggle with his enemy, and setting his mental forces in array. The idea of criminality in drunkenness took, I was glad to see, a deeper and deeper hold upon him. He was very severe on himself, in referring to the wrongs his family had suffered; and did not hesitate to call his conduct towards them an aggravated crime.
"You have helped me to my feet again," he said, holding my hand tightly, as he was about leaving my office, "and may God bless you; not for my sake only, but for the sake of my wife and children. A criminal! No, no, no! A good citizen, an honorable man — Alexander Granger will be all these — but not a criminal! Good-bye! I am your debtor more than can be estimated in any count of gold. Good-bye, and again, may God bless you!"
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