The Blue Ribbon Army numbers at the present time more than 600,000 soldiers, it is said. A little patience, and the water drinkers will soon be as numerous as the drunkards. What spectacles of eccentric contrasts! Picture to yourself children, urchins of three or four years old, decorated with the blue ribbon; men and women persuaded into pledging themselves in writing that they will never touch wine, beer, or any other alcoholic drink. What folly! and, at the same time, what a confession of weakness! Is it not, in fact, asking them to sign that, since they do not know how to stop when they have quenched their thirst, they will swear to touch no drink whatever? And you, John, my friend, you are satisfied with this progress; you rub your hands with pleasure and admiration; you are going to close your taverns, and forbid your grocers to sell wines, beer, and spirits: are you simple enough to imagine that a people is to be made virtuous by Act of Parliament? Your parsons and old maids, who know that about a hundred million pounds sterling is annually spent upon alcohol, move heaven and earth to divert this golden stream into the coffers of the Church, to take it out of the devil’s clutches and give it to God; and you take all they say for Gospel, without perceiving that you are simply working for a few shrewd speculators, who are delighted to have an opportunity of trading upon your pretensions to virtue, in order to cover themselves with both profit and honour.

Do you remember, for instance, that a little while ago, the Gospel Temperance Society of Edinburgh was hard up, because it had to pay a hundred pounds sterling to a gentleman who, during a whole month, had talked himself hoarse in trying to prove to the inhabitants of Auld Reekie that, if they would ensure their welfare in this world ... and the next, they must drink nothing but water, and that the said Society had also to pay the hotel bill of this good apostle, a bill that amounted to £52 13s.? By Jove! More than fifty-two pounds for a month’s board and lodging! Water is expensive in Edinburgh!

Do you not think that your working classes would look much healthier, if instead of weak tea and bread more or less buttered, you made them breakfast off good soup, or even drink a glass of sound home-brewed ale? It is not total abstinence, but moderation, that should be preached: moderation,[7] a word that seems to be fast dying out of your vocabulary. It is not wine, but vice, that makes the drunkard, says the Chinese proverb; it is not the wine or the beer then, but the vice, that it should be your effort to suppress.

In medio veritas et virtus; but the motto of your island unhappily seems to be In extremis dementia. Your arms carry too far, and you kill nothing.

All those insensate doctrines make a few fanatics and hypocrites, but comparatively few serious proselytes, and, moreover, they tend to produce the most violent reactions. Besides, do not forget that your tea which you swallow in such quantities, your lemonade, and all the tribe of artificial and teetotal drinks, have made you bilious, old fellow; yes, bilious, dyspeptic, hypochondriac, morose, and crabbed; and you ought to know that no Divine law forbids us to enjoy the good things that Providence has strewn around us for our use, though the law of Nature does teach us to use them with discretion.

You laugh at us because, when we are at table with our family, we do not scruple to cover our chest with our serviette; you are much amused at our commercial travellers, who, at a table d’hÔte, bravely tie it around their necks, and set to work as if they meant to do serious execution, and you exclaim, “What gluttons! How they eat!”

But you are a little bit jealous, dear boy, that is all. Yes, at table, we set aside our cares, we are happy, we talk and laugh with our wives and children, and make the pleasure last as long as we can. And if we have found the secret of happiness and gaiety, we inspire more envy than pity, believe me; and if you had not ruined your digestion with your tea and other unhealthy slops, if you were to forget a little of your insular dignity while you are at table, and make a little progress in your cookery, you would probably find that, after all, gaiety is an excellent thing, even if it should come from a good digestion.

I know very well you will reply that your only aim in this world is to secure your salvation in the next. I know this takes up a great deal of your time; but as it does not prevent your taking a great interest in your banking account, and a thousand other little mundane matters, I conclude that, if you, like ourselves, hope to reach paradise one day, like ourselves also, you are not in a hurry to set out. Really, do leave us alone with your tea, cocoa, and other salvation potions. Drink water, if it suits your taste; for England is a free country. But for goodness’ sake, let other people drink what they like.

Anyhow, take care: do not overshoot your mark. Drunkenness no longer exists in a deep-rooted, hideous form, except among the lower classes of your great towns, and this is a much better state of things than existed when Members of Parliament were called to order for putting their feet on the table in front of the Speaker. And it should be added that, thanks to education, even your lower classes are becoming more sober. As for asking for an Act of Parliament, to prevent peaceful citizens from going to buy a bottle of cognac of their grocer, it is utter folly.

Finally, John, remember that one of your bishops, not long ago, refused to sign a similar petition to the House of Commons, saying that he had rather belong to a nation of drunkards than a nation of slaves. It was in the coquettish town of Torquay, in the month of March, 1884.

I was present at an immense tea-and-bread-and-butter-meeting, held under the auspices of the Temperance Society, and presided over by a venerable archdeacon. As I looked around me at the long Lenten-looking faces, silent and damned, to use the energetic expression of the poet Shelley, swallowing their tea in little sips, and nibbling their bread and butter with their eyes lifted heavenward, I thought to myself: Yes, I have said and will maintain it: nothing is more beautiful, nothing is more edifying, than to contemplate John as he imbibes this angelical beverage.

I had duly partaken of a slice of bread and butter, and swallowed my two cups of tea, as stoically as any of the members of this edifying congregation, when an old maid, sitting next me, who, since the proceedings began had not opened her mouth, except to yawn at regular intervals like a machine, ventured to break the solemn silence:

“Oh! sir,” she said, addressing me, “what a grand meeting this is! Ours is a glorious cause!”

——“I do not doubt it, madam,” I replied. “When this interesting tea party is over, there is to be an address, I believe?”

——“Yes; Archdeacon ... will say a few words.” ——“What is the object of this meeting? The closing of public-houses on Sundays, I presume?”

——“Oh, dear no! we want to do something better than that. The public-house is not the greatest evil we have to fight against. We want to send a petition to Parliament to get the law repealed that allows grocers and pastrycooks to sell wine, beer, and spirits.”

——“Really!” I exclaimed.

——“Yes, the public-house is only frequented by the lower classes; their sphere of action is, therefore, limited; but drunkenness among the women of the middle classes is greatly on the increase. Under pretence of buying a cake at the confectioner’s, they enter the shop with the intention of drinking wine; under the pretext of sending their servants to buy groceries, they send for brandy, and get tipsy at home. So we have said to ourselves: The confectioner and the grocer are the enemies we have to fight.”

——“I am afraid you calumniate your countrywomen,” I suggested.

——“It is the sad truth; you will hear the Archdeacon presently: he has terrible tales to tell. Yes, sir, the grocers do more harm to our cause than the publicans. It was Mr. Gladstone that granted the grocers their licences, because it is well known that most grocers are Liberals.” ——“I see,” I said to my neighbour. “And as the publicans are Conservatives, you would like them to enjoy the monopoly of the sale of alcoholic poisons. It is a little electoral manoeuvre. Excuse me if I do not quite appreciate your philanthropical sentiments. But I see that the company is rising to go to the meeting; I will do myself the pleasure of going to hear what the Archdeacon has to say.”

The proceedings began with prayer and the singing of the hymn, “Rescue the perishing.”

When the hymn was finished, the venerable Archdeacon who presided rose, and began to deliver his address, from which I give you the following passages:—

“Over and over again, we have had it in evidence that the secret drinking of the home has been traceable, not to habits picked up in the public-house, but rather to the means of intoxication supplied through the grocer’s shop. Of this there is not the slightest doubt, and when we remember that one of our famous judges, not long ago, traced most of the terrible wife-murders, not to the drunkenness of the husbands, but to the drunkenness of the wives, who had made their homes so wretched that their husbands were aggravated into committing the crime; when we remember further that, from all sides, there comes evidence that, however successful our other efforts are in the temperance cause, drunkenness is increasing amongst a certain class of the population, and that this is more or less traceable to the grocers’ licences, we shall conclude that we are bound to try and do something to remove this special cause of temptation from the homes of our brothers and sisters. Not long ago, I was taking part in a mission in a town some distance from Torquay, and, in a very poor neighbourhood, I met the wife of an artisan coming out of one of the grocer’s shops. She had a basket upon her arm, and in it were the usual groceries. The woman allowed me to look into the basket, and there underneath all was the unmistakable bottle of spirits. I went into the shop under the pretence of getting change for a sovereign, and during the short time I was there, six or eight women came in and purchased spirits.”

“Between ourselves,” I whispered to my neighbour, “it would have been more generous of the very reverend gentleman, if he had made a little purchase of the grocer he was getting up evidence against, instead of asking him for a favour.”

I continued to lend an attentive ear.

“In a railway station refreshment room, before half-past nine in the morning, the following scene passed before my eyes:—Three very respectably-dressed good-looking shop girls, evidently going out for a holiday, went straight to the bar and ordered, in the most unblushing way, a glass of bitter beer. Shortly afterwards, a fourth girl joined them, and she as unblushingly asked for three pennyworth of spirits, which she drank on the spot.... Not long ago, in this very town, I was in a well-known refreshment shop, and whilst I was there, a lady, respectable in appearance, with a child by her side, and a carriage waiting outside to take her home, consumed no less than three glasses of sherry one after the other. This was utterly unnecessary in the middle of the day, and it was probably unknown to the lady’s husband.... You will help us, I am convinced, to put a stop to this state of things; you will sign the petition we are about to send to Parliament, and in which we ask our representatives to remove a very great cause of temptation from the homes of many of our brethren by withdrawing the grocers’ licences.”

The Archdeacon was followed on the platform by some ladies, who gave the audience the benefit of their own experiences with regard to the drunken habits of Englishwomen; after which the hymn, “To the work,” was sung; for if, in France, everything ends in songs, in England everything ends in hymns. “Why,” I said to my spinster friend, “there is no common sense in all this. What! no more arguments than that! Because a few women have been to buy a little brandy of their grocer, with the most innocent intention perhaps, you are going to ask Parliament to prevent free and honest citizens, who object to going to the public-house, from getting a bottle of wine with their groceries. It is absurd.”

——“Not at all,” she replied; “I have been drinking nothing but water for forty years and more, and the day we all become water drinkers, we shall be a holy nation.”

——“A nation of lunatics,” thought I; and getting out of this atmosphere as quickly as I could I jumped into a cab and drove to the station. As I alighted, I noticed that my cabby had a bit of yellow ribbon in his buttonhole.

“Hallo!” I said to him, “what decoration do you call that?”

——“Ah! you have been with the water drinkers, to the Blue Ribbon meeting, sir; I belong to the Yellow Ribbon Army, I do.”

——“Indeed,” cried I; “and what do they do in the Yellow Ribbon Army?”

——“Why,” he answered; “you eats what you like, and you drinks what you like, and you don’t care a damn for nobody.” By Jove! it was quite a treat to see a man again after having passed the evening with such a lot of old women.

“Here, old fellow,” said I to this free-born Briton, who had one of those good open faces such as you see so often in Devonshire, “take this, and go and drink my health;” and I turned away to the ticket office, reconciled with mankind.[8]