The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
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LOCKED OUT. |
 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
LOCKED OUT.
By Amerel.
Amid the scenes of suffering and sorrow which the
annals of intemperance present, we occasionally meet
with a shade of the ludicrous. There are individuals,
who, owing to some peculiarity of their mental
constitution, never become habitual drunkards. Occasionally
they indulge in a night revel, or a frolic of
longer duration; but when this is over, their appetite
for strong drink seems extinguished, and they remain
sober for months.
Such a character was one Dr. Lightfoot, so called
in the neighbourhood where he resided. The title
was a mere soubriquet; for, though his easy, unostentatious
manners endeared him to all, yet he had no
great stock of learning, and made no pretensions to a
profession of any kind. Being at all times a jolly
companion, his house was the resort of those who, leading
a half useless life like himself, knew no way of
relieving the tediousness of time, except in a social
party or a glee club. At such places, and especially
when half intoxicated, Lightfoot was the most amusing
of drones.
A party of three or four men, to which Lightfoot
had been invited, had assembled one evening at the
house of a man named Goblet. Decanters, glasses,
and dishes of fruit were on the table, and, at times, a
loud laugh or a clapping of hands, announced that an
anecdote or a good story had just been finished. The
liquor was, however, untouched, and the men seemed
to be waiting anxiously for the arrival of others.
“Afraid the doctor can't get here,” one of them
said, at length.
“That will be a disappointment. Is it raining
yet?”
“You'll believe so if you come to the window. The
poor old man would be drowned, big as he is.”
Contrary to all probability, Lightfoot's heavy knock
was heard at the door. He was soon in the room.
“Come at last, doctor,” greeted his ears as he
entered. A stormy evening.”
“Terrible. I'm wet, too,” he replied, as he stood
and coat. The dripping garments were speedily removed
by his friends.
“Why, doctor, you're out of breath,” exclaimed
Goblet.
“Most dead. The omnibus man wouldn't stop—I
chased him half a square—till die, I thought I would.
I catched up—it was full. You know I'm poor at
running.”
“So you walked the whole way?”
“Yes—what o'clock is it?”
“Just eight, doctor.”
“I started at seven—it's the way when you're in a
hurry. Let's have a glass, if you please.”
Wine was poured out, and the whole party, seating
themselves round the table, rapidly emptied one glass
after another, accompanying the draughts by extensive
levies upon the cakes and fruit. As the provisions
diminished, the hilarity increased, until the room rang
with shouting and stamping. Songs, anecdotes, and
shouts of laughter were mingled together in inextricable
and indescribable confusion. One called for a
glee, another for a round; while Goblet, emptying a
wine-glass into his bosom, declared he could drink
and sing at the same time. A few moments afterwards,
two of them, having thrown themselves back
in a chair, were singing a double bass, and keeping
time with hand and foot.
“Hear me, boys!” Goblet shouted. They sang on.
“I've a new—a new notion.” Still they sang on.
“Let one of us recite—recite a page—two pages—
to double forte, and, mingling with the stamping
of feet, drowned all other sound. Goblet's proposal
was lost in the din.
During the performance, the doctor had been
lounging quietly in his chair, emptying, with great
industry, one glass of wine after another, while his
small eyes twinkled with delight. It was his habit,
on such occasions, to remain a silent spectator until
his companions were pretty well exhausted, and then
to break forth into exercises of his own, so original
and startling, that they aroused his half-sleeping
audience to another hour's revel. Such was the case
on the present occasion. He saw, with astonishing
apathy, his companions advance, step by step, to the
summit of merriment, and then sink, with head and
elbows, upon the table; but his own turn came at last.
Just as the voices of Goblet and the other two were
dying away in feeble mutterings, Lightfoot, with stentorian
lungs, burst into the well-known street rhapsody,
“We won't go home till morning!”
“Ha—a?” drawled Goblet's right hand assistant,
raising his head and looking at the doctor, curiously.
By that time, Lightfoot had reached the words, “broad
daylight,” to which he added a variation of rapid ha!
ha! ha's, accompanied by stamping, which considerably
disturbed the slumbers of his friends. The second
verse began still louder, and the singer, swaying
to right and left, marked the time with beats and accents,
which made the windows and the decanters
jingle.
“What's the matter?” exclaimed Goblet, seizing a
decanter.
“Chorus, boys—full and strong!” the doctor
shouted.
“I'm sick,” one of them groaned.
“We won't go home till morning!” roared Lightfoot.
And one or two voices, feeble as echoes, repeated
“morning.” The doctor, encouraged by such
success, put forth his whole strength, so that before
the close of the song, the entire party were again in
full blast.
“Give us another, doctor!” arose from all sides.
But the doctor needed no stimulus. Throwing his
head upward, to allow his voice its whole volume, he
poured forth, during more than an hour, songs, catches,
and solos, until the room resembled a bedlam.
“Who'll dance?” exclaimed Goblet, making a
strong effort to rise.
“A dance! a dance!” echoed his drunken companions;
and Goblet, after several ineffectual attempts,
succeeded in rising. He reeled towards the middle
of the room, and began a series of zigzag steps, amid
the laughter and jeers of his companions. But, in
spite of the powerful encouragement of Lightfoot's
voice, he dared not trust himself upon one foot, but
stumbled backward and forward, while his arms and
head wagged in sympathy with his feet. At last he
moved towards a chair; but, unfortunately, in the
act of seating himself, he struck its edge, and came
down, with a deafening noise, upon the floor. A roar
of laughter arose from his companions; but the fall
with him, had inflicted pretty severe bruises upon his
head, to which was added the effects of the heavy
shock. For a while he writhed over the floor with
ludicrous contortions of face and figure. Some one
was heard at the door.
“Is any thing the matter?” inquired a servant,
timidly, looking into the room.
He was ordered down stairs. By the vigorous exertions
of Lightfoot, Goblet was raised from the floor
and conducted to a chair.
This accident destroyed the hilarity for that evening;
and, at a few minutes past midnight, the party
broke up.
Lightfoot's spirits, like an overstrained bow, began
to flag, and a longing desire for sleep came over him,
even before the accident to Goblet. It was precisely
when in this condition that he was the counterpart
of what we have beheld him under the first influence
of intoxication—peevish, irascible, hasty. The condition
of the weather was such as to increase these
feelings to an indefinite extent; for of all things, Lightfoot
detested walking through the rain. This, was,
however, unavoidable; and the old man, after throwing
out some doleful remarks about “pouring,”
“slush,” and his “health,” stepped upon the pavement.
His intellect being in a lethargic state, from
which he partially aroused, only when the recollection
of the rain and the late hour occurred to his mind, he
totally forgot that he held an umbrella under his arm,
and, consequently, walked home without raising it.
he came to the last corner, round which was a
direct road, with pavement the whole way to his own
door. To any other man this would have been an
occasion of rejoicing; but Dr. Lightfoot was not like
other men; and now, to wound still more his already
lacerated feelings, an envious thought suddenly occurred
to his mind. It was that of Mrs. Lightfoot,
seated comfortably at home, while he was suffering
in the storm. It almost overwhelmed him. “She
don't care if I perish,” he muttered, “so she's well
herself. Worse and worse—it's trickling down my
back. Any woman, to see her husband out such a
night as this! oh! it's dreadful!—after ten o'clock,
too! curse the glee club!—must have a heart of
flint. Only listen!” he groaned, as the wind whistled
over his head. “I'll not go out again, if I only get
home alive, no, not for a year.”
Lightfoot was now hard by his dwelling. He rang
the bell convulsively, and was soon inside of the hall.
“Start about your business!” was his first exclamation
to the servant who offered to take his umbrella.
“They'd see a man drown,” he soliloquized, “without
asking him if he was wet, or bringing him an
umbrella.” Perceiving that useful article under his
arm, he hurriedly seized a light, and ascended the
stairway which led to his room.
“It's shut, is it?” was his first summons, as he
kicked the door with fearful emphasis. “Is it shut?
And you'd see me suffer”—another kick—“with
cold”—another kick—“at this time of night, would
“you cruel,”—a kick—“hard hearted,”—two kicks—
“wretch!”
By this time audible sounds proceeded from the
room. Mrs. Lightfoot had evidently risen.
“Let me in!” roared the doctor, charging the door
at full speed.
“Thieves! murder!” screamed Mrs. Lightfoot.
“Open the door, instantly! open the door!” And
the panel resounded at each word.
“Heaven help us!” screamed a woman, rushing
from her room.
“What's the matter?” exclaimed another, peeping
through the carefully opened door.
The doctor was now plying both feet alternately,
so that the door appeared failing fast. Mrs. Lightfoot
was heard at the window, inside, screaming for the
police; while the servants and boarders, having
reached the scene of disturbance, were enjoying it
with the keenest relish.
“Maybe the man wants to see somebody,” said a
boarder who had arrived that day.
“Kick harder, doctor,” exclaimed a waggish young
man, on Lightfoot's right hand.
Such jests, accompanied by shouts of laughter, increased
his rage to the highest pitch, and, with doleful
cries, he kicked and knocked the door with feet
and hands. As his temper increased, the mirth of the
group around him reached its height; so that every
knock upon the door was greeted by such expressions
as “That's it,” “Hit him again,” “Strike, but hear
me,” “Once more into the breach,” &c.; while inside
Mrs. Lightfoot was heard screaming murder.
“Look here, neighbour,” exclaimed a bystander,
who thought the performance had gone quite far
enough, “It's now nearly two o'clock; and we folks
who stay in at night, want some sleep. If you are so
fond of kicking, go into the street, or I'll call an officer
to take you.”
“Why don't she let me in, then?”
“If you can't get in without all this hubbub, “we'll
provide lodging for you I assure you.”
“Look at me!” whined the doctor. “I've passed
through more trials than would kill a horse; and
Let me in! let me in!” and the assault recommenced.
“Why, doctor, it isn't you, is it?” inquired the
voice within. “Is it you, dear?”
“Let me in, you false, deceitful hypocrite! Let
me in, or I'll stave the door through!”
“Will you be quiet or not?” said the man who had
undertaken to interfere.
“Why, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, half opening
the door, “it wasn't locked.”
“Don't speak to me!” shouted the doctor.
“Wouldn't it have flown open when I knocked?—
wouldn't it, if it wasn't locked?”
The doctor had just finished this question when a
hand was laid upon his shoulder.
“Hands off!” he shouted.
“Not at present,” was the reply. “I want you
with me to-night.”
“I—I was trying to get in my room,” exclaimed
Lightfoot.
“You must go with me.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the poor doctor, much sobered,
“it's all over—couldn't get in, that's all; but
it's all over.”
“You must go with me, though, and account for
the night's disturbance.”
“It ain't necessary—indeed it ain't sir. I was wet,
watchman, and cross; but it's over—over.”
The watchman shook his head. “You must come
along.”
“Oh, no! no! no!” screamed Mrs. Lightfoot,
He's the kindest of men. Please, for my sake, you
won't take him. It's all my fault that I wasn't up—
indeed it is!”
The doctor's fortitude now gave way. “Oh, don't
take me!—not to-night! It's only the first offence!
I'll do better in future—indeed I will! It's Dick
Goblet's fault. I didn't want to go. Please let go
my arm”!
At length the matter was compromised; and the
doctor, with his wife, was allowed to retire. “This
is my last frolic,” was heard by the merry crowd, as
the door closed upon them.
| The fountain and the bottle | |