What Became of the Demijohns
A Dying Petition Revolutionizes a Home WHO'S that, I wonder?" said Mrs. Seaburn, as she heard a ring at the basement door. “Ah! It's Marshall,” returned her husband, who had looked out at the window, and recognized the grocer's cart. “And what have you had sent home now, Henry?” But before Mr. Seaburn could answer, the door of the sitting-room was opened, and one of the domestics looked in, and asked, “What'll I do wid the demijohns, mum?” “Demijohns?” repeated Mrs. Seaburn. “Put them in the hall, and I'll attend to them,” interposed the husband. “Henry, what have you sent home now?” the wife asked after the domestic was gone. “Some nice old brandy,” replied Henry. Cora Seaburn glanced up at the clock, and then down upon the floor. There was a cloud upon her fair brow, and it was very evident that something lay heavily upon her heart. Presently she walked to the wall and pulled the bell-cord, and the summons was answered by the chambermaid. “Are George and Charles in their room?” “Tell them it is school-time.” The girl went out, and in a little while two boys entered the sitting-room with their books under their arms and their caps in their hands. They were bright, happy, healthy fellows, with goodness and truth stamped upon their rosy faces, and the light of free consciences gleaming in their sparkling eyes. George was thirteen years of age, and Charles eleven; and certainly those two parents had reason to be proud of them. The boys kissed their mother, gave a happy “Good-morning” to their father, and then went away to school. “Cora,” said Mr. Seaburn, some time after the boys had gone, “what makes you so sober?” “Sober!” repeated the wife, looking up. “Yes. You have been sober and mute ever since the grocer came.” “Do you want me to tell you why?” “Well, Henry, I am sorry you have had that spirit brought into the house.” “Pooh! What's the use in talking so, Cora? You wouldn't have me do without it, would you?” “I mean that I would cut clear of the stuff, now and forever.” “But, Cora, you are wild. What should we do at our parties without wine?” “Do as others who have it not.” “But what would people say? Are you afraid I—but no, I won't ask so foolish a question.” “Ask it, Henry. Let us speak plainly, now that we have fairly commenced.” “Well, I was about to ask if you were afraid that I should ever drink too much?” “That's not a fair question, Henry. I was not thinking of that at all. But I will answer it by and by. You have no fixed appetite for it now.” “Then it would not cost any effort of will to abstain from its use?” “And you only have it in the house, and serve it to your friends and drink it yourself, because it is fashionable, or you do it because others do it?” “I do it because—” said Mr. Seaburn, hesitating in his choice of language—“because it would appear very odd, and very niggardly, and very fanatical, not to do it.” This last was spoken emphatically. “But,” pursued Mrs. Seaburn, with a calmness and assurance of one who feels the sustaining influence of right, “you would not do what you were convinced was wrong out of respect to any such considerations, would you?” “You know I would not, Cora. This question of temperance, I know, is a good one in the abstract, and I am willing to live up to it as I understand it; but I am no teetotaler.” “Henry,” said his wife, with an earnest look into his face, “will you answer me a few questions, and answer them honestly and truly, without equivocation or evasion?” “Why, how methodically you put it, Cora! But I will answer.” “Then, first: Do you believe you or your friends are in any way benefited by the drinking of intoxicating beverages at your board? That is, do you derive any real good from it?” “No, I can't say that we do.” “Do you think the time has ever been, since we were married, when we actually needed wine in the house, either for our health or for comfort?” “Why, I think it has added to our comfort, Cora.” “Why, in the enjoyment of our guests.” “Ah! But I am speaking of ourselves, Henry—of you, and me, and our little family. Has it ever ministered to our comfort?” “No, I can't say that it has.” “And if it were banished from our house to-day and forever, as a beverage, should we suffer in consequence?” “Certainly. What would our friends—” “Ah! But stop. I am only speaking of our own affairs, as shut out from the world, by our own fireside. I want all extraneous considerations left out of the question. Should we, as a family, suffer in our moral, physical, social, or domestic affairs in the total abstinence from this beverage?” “No, I don't know that we should.” “Then to you, as a husband, and a father, and as a man, it is of no earthly use?” “And it would cost you no effort, so far as you alone are concerned, to break clear from it?” “And now, Henry,” pursued the wife, with increased earnestness, “I have a few more questions to ask: Do you believe that the drinking of intoxicating beverages is an evil in this country?” “Why, as it is now going on, I certainly do.” “And isn't it an evil in society?” “Look over this city, and tell me if it is not a terrible evil!” “A terrible evil grows out of the abuse of it, Cora.” “And will you tell me what good grows out of the use of it?” “Really, love, when you come down to this abstract point, you have the field. But people should govern their appetites. All things may be abused.” “Yes. But will you tell me the use—the real good—to be derived from drinking wine and brandy?” “As I said before, it is a social custom, and has its charms.” “Ah! There you have it, Henry. It does have its charms, as the deadly snake is said to have, and as other vices have. But I see you are in a hurry.” “It is time I was at the store.” “I will detain you but a moment longer, Henry. Just answer me a few more questions. Now call to mind all the families of your acquaintance; think of all the domestic circles you have known from your schoolboy days to the present; run your thought through the various homes where you have been intimate—do this, and tell me if in any one instance you ever knew a single joy to be planted by the hearthstone from the wine-cup. Did you ever know one item of good to flow to a family from its use?” “No, I can not say that I ever did—not as you mean.” “And now answer me again: Have you seen any great griefs planted by the intoxicating bowl upon the hearthstone?” Henry Seaburn did not answer, for there passed before him such grim specters of sorrow and grief, that he shuddered at the mental vision. What sights he saw as he unrolled the canvas of his memory! “Henry,” whispered the wife, moving to his side, and winding one arm gently about his neck, “we have two boys. They are growing to be men. They are noble, generous, and tender-hearted. They love their home and honor their parents. They are here to form those characters, to receive those impressions, which shall be the basis upon which their future weal or wo must rest. Look at them. O, think of them! Think of them doing battle in the great struggle of life before them! O, for our children, for those two boys, for the men we717hope to see them, for the sweet memories we would have them cherish of their home, for the good old age they may reap, let us cast this thing out now and forever!” Cora kissed her husband as she ceased speaking; and then he arose to his feet, but he made her no reply. “Henry, you are not offended?” “No,” he said. He returned her kiss, and without another word, left the house and went to his store. After the bank had closed, and as Henry Seaburn was thinking of going to his dinner, he received a note through the penny post. It was from a medical friend, and contained a request that he would call at the hospital on his way home. “There is a man in one of the lower wards who wishes to see you,” said the doctor. “Does he know me?” asked Seaburn. “He won't tell us. He goes by the name of Smith, but I am satisfied that such is not his true name. He is in the last stage of consumption and delirium. He has lucid intervals, but they do not last long. He was picked up in the street, and brought here. He heard your name, and said he knew you once.” Mr. Seaburn went into the room where the patient lay, and looked at him. Surely he never knew that man! “There must be some mistake,” he said. The invalid heard him, and opened his eyes—such bloodshot, unearthly eyes! “Harry,” he whispered, trying to lift himself upon his elbow, “is this Henry Seaburn?” “Have you forgotten your old playmate in boyhood, Harry—your friend in other years—your chum in college?” “What!” gasped Seaburn, starting back aghast, for a glimmer of the truth burst upon him. “This is not Alec Lomberg?” “All that is left of him, my Hal,” returned the poor fellow, putting forth his wasted, skeleton hand, and smiling a faint, quivering, dying smile. “Alexander Lomberg,” said Henry, gazing into the bloated, disfigured face before him. “You wouldn't have known me, Hal?” “But, Alec,” cried Seaburn, “how is this? Why are you here?” “Rum, my Hal—rum! I'm about done for. But I wanted to see you. They told me you lived not far away, and I would look upon one friend before I died.” “But I heard that you were practising in your profession, Alec, and doing well.” “So I did well when I practised, Hal. I have made some pleas, but I have given up all that.” “And your father—where is he?” “Don't mention him, Hal. We've broken. I don't know him; he taught me to drink! Aye, he taught me, and then turned the cold shoulder upon me when I drank too much! But I'm going, going!” Henry Seaburn gazed into that terrible face, and remembered what its owner had been,—the son of wealthy parents; the idol of a fond mother; the favorite at school, at play, and at college; a light of intellect, physical beauty; and a noble, generous friend. And now, alas! “Alec, can I help you?” “Yes.” And the poor fellow started higher up from his pillow, and something of the old light struggled for a moment in his eye. “Pray for me, Hal. Pray for my soul! Pray that I may go where my mother is! She won't disown her boy. She could not have done it had she lived. O, she was a good mother, Hal! Thank God she didn't live to see this! Pray for me—pray—pray! Let me go to her!” As the wasted man sank back, he fell to weeping, and in a moment more, one of his paroxysms came on, and he began to rave. He thought Harry was his father, and he cursed the habit that had been fastened upon him under that father's influence. But Henry could not stop to listen. With an aching heart, he turned away and left the hospital. He could not go home to dinner then; he went down-town, and got dinner there. At night he went to the hospital again. He would inquire after his friend, if he did not see him. “Poor fellow!” said the physician, “he never came out of that fit; he died in half an hour after you went out.” It was dark when Henry Seaburn reached home. “You didn't tell Bridget where to put those demijohns, Henry,” said his wife. She had not noticed his face, for the gas was burning dimly. “Ah, I forgot! Come down with me, Cora, and we'll find a place for them.” His wife followed him down into the basement; and one by one he took the demijohns and carried them into the rear yard, and there he emptied their contents into the sewer. Then he broke the vessels in pieces with his foot, and bade Bridget have the dirtman take the fragments away in the morning. Not one word had he spoken to his wife all the while, nor did she speak to him. He returned to the sitting-room, where his boys were at their books, and took a seat on one of the tete-a-tetes. He called his wife and children about him, and then told them the story of Alexander Lomberg. “And now, my loved ones,” he added, laying his hands upon the heads of his boys, “I have made a solemn vow that henceforth my children shall find no such influence at their home. They shall never have occasion to curse the example of their father. I will touch the wine-cup no more forever. What say you, my boys—will you join me in the pledge?” They joined him with a glad, gushing willingness; for their hearts were full, and their sympathies all turned by a mother's careful love, to the right. “Yes, yes!” she cried. “And may the holy lesson of it rest as an angel of mercy upon my boys. Let it be a light to their feet in the time of temptation! And so shall they bless through life the influence they carry with them from their home!”—“Sabbath Readings.”