LOUD and long rang the single church-bell at Backley, but its industry
was entirely unnecessary, for the single church at Backley was already
full from the altar to the doors, and the window-sills and altar-steps
were crowded with children. The Backleyites had been before to the
regular yearly temperance meetings, and knew too well the relative
merits of sitting and standing to wait until called by the bell. Of
course no one could afford to be absent, for entertainments were
entirely infrequent at Backley; the populace was too small to support a
course of lectures, and too moral to give any encouragement to circuses
and minstrel troupes, but a temperance meeting was both moral and cheap,
and the children might all be taken without extra cost.
For months all the young men and maidens at Backley had been practising
the choruses of the songs which the Temperance Glee Club at a
neighboring town was to sing at the meeting. For weeks had large
posters, printed in the reddest of ink, announced to the surrounding
country that the parent society would send to Backley, for this especial
occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor
made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of
the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the
lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain
fractional currency represented but a small amount of money.
The bell ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze
into the aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air;
Squire Breet called the meeting to order, and was himself elected
permanent Chairman; the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that
intemperance might cease to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs,
with rousing choruses; a pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate
(both pupils of the Backley High School), delivered a dialogue in which
the pretended drunkard was handled severely; a tableau of “The
Drunkard’s Home” was given; and then the parent society’s brilliant
orator took the platform.
The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing,
besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present
that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and
unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the
brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with
harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of
police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that
alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of
statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the
money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many
comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would
support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.
Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard’s family and
the awfulness of the drunkard’s death, and sat down amid a perfect
thunder of applause.
The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive
countenances; the Cornet Quartette played “Don’t you go, Tommy”; the
smallest young lady sang “Father, dear father, come Home with me Now”;
and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open
for remarks.
A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from
some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and looking
round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.
“Put him out!” “It’s a shame!” “Disgraceful!” were some of the cries
which were heard in the room.
“Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley,” said the Chairman, rapping
vigorously to call the audience to order, “and though not a member of
the Association, he is entitled to a hearing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; “your
words are the first respectful ones I’ve ever heard in Backley, an’ I do
assure you I appreciate ’em. But I want the audience to understand I
ain’t drunk—I haven’t had a cent for two days, an’ nobody’s treated me.”
By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of
excitement. A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!—they
had never heard of such a thing in their lives. Verily, Backley was
going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual
occurrences.
“I ’spose, Mr. Chairman,” continued Joe Digg, “that the pint of
temp’rance meetin’s is to stop drunkenness, an’ as I’m about the only
fully developed drunkard in town, I’m most likely to know what this
meetin’s ’mounted to.”
Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness
of Joe Digg’s position.
“I believe ev’ry word the gentleman has said,” continued the drunkard,
“and”—here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim
“Bless the Lord!” and burst into tears—“and he could have put it all a
good deal stronger without stretchin’ the truth. An’ the sorrer of a
drunkard’s home can be talked about ‘till the Dictionary runs dry, an’
then ye don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. But hain’t none of ye ever laughed
’bout lockin’ the stable door after the hoss is stolen? That’s just what
this temp’rance meetin’ an’ all the others comes to.”
A general and rather indignant murmur of dissent ran through the
audience.
“Ye don’t believe it,” continued Joe Digg, “but I’ve been a drunkard,
an’ I’m one yet, an’ ye all got sense enough to understan’ that I ort to
know best about it.”
“Will the gentleman have the kindness to explain?” asked the lecturer.
“I’m a comin’ to it, sir, ef my head ’ll see me through,” replied the
drunkard. “You folks all b’leeve that its lovin’ liquor that makes men
drink it; now, ’taint no sech thing. I never had a chance to taste fancy
drinks, but I know that every kind of liquor _I_ ever got hold of was
more like medicine than anything nice.”
“Then what _do_ they drink for?” demanded the excitable member.
“I’ll tell you,” said Joe, “if you’ll have a little patience. I have to
do it in my own way, for I ain’t used to public speakin’. You all know
who I am. My father was a church-member, an’ so was mother. Father done
day’s work, fur a dollar’n a quarter a day. How much firewood an’
clothes an’ food d’ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat
what come cheapest, an’ when some of the women here wuz a sittin’
comfortable o’ nights, a knittin’ an’ sewin’ an’ readin’, mother wuz
hangin’ aroun’ the butchershop, tryin’ to beat the butcher down on the
scraps that wasn’t good enough for you folks. Soon as we young ’uns was
big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I’ve worked for men in
this room twelve an’ fourteen hours a day. I don’t blame ’em—they didn’t
mean nothin’ out of the way—they worked just as long ’emselves, an’ so
did their boys. But they allers had somethin’ inside to keep ’em up, an’
I didn’t. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some men that
kep’ liquor in the field, an’ found how it helped me along, that I took
it, an’ thought ’twas a reg’lar God’s-blessin’? An’ when I foun’ ’twas
a-hurtin’ me, how was I to go to work an’ giv’ it up, when it stood me
instead of the eatables I didn’t have, an’ never had, neither?”
“You should hev prayed,” cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet;
“prayed long an’ earnest.”
[Illustration:
THE TEMPERANCE MEETING.
]
“Deacon,” said Joe Digg, “I’ve heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to
twenty year; did prayin’ ever comfort _your_ stomach?”
The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was
suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:
“There’s lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an’ ev’ry where’s
else—people that don’t get half fed, an’ do get worked half to death.
Nobody _means_ to ’buse ’em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an’
whisky’s the best friend they’ve got.”
“I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself,” said Deacon
Towser, jumping up again, “an’ I’m the first man in the field, an’ the
last man to quit. But I don’t drink no liquor, an’ my boys don’t,
neither.”
“But ye don’t start in the mornin’ with hungry little faces a hauntin’
ye—ye don’t take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an’
leave the meat an’ butter at home for the wife an’ young ’uns. An’ ye go
home without bein’ afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin’ herself aroun’
among a lot of puny young ’uns that don’t know what’s the matter with
’em. Jesus Christ hissef broke down when it come to the cross, deac’n,
an’ poor human bein’s sometimes reaches a pint where they can’t stan’ no
more, an’ when its wife an’ children that brings it on, it gits a man
awful.”
“The gentleman is right, I have no doubt,” said the Chairman, “so far as
a limited class is concerned, but of course no such line of argument
applies to the majority of cases. There are plenty of well-fed, healthy,
and lazy young men hanging about the tavern in this very village.”
“I know it,” said Joe Digg, “an’ I want to talk about them too. I don’t
want to take up all the time of this meetin’, but you’ll all ’low I know
more ’bout that tavern than any body else does. Ther’ is lots of young
men a hanging aroun’ it, an’ why—’cos it’s made pleasant for ’em an’
it’s the only place in town that is. I’ve been a faithful attendant at
that tavern for nigh onto twenty year, an’ I never knowed a hanger-on
there that had a comfortable home of his own. Some of them that don’t
hev to go to bed hungry hev scoldin’ or squabblin’ parents, an’ they
can’t go a visitin’, an’ hear fine music, an’ see nice things of every
sort to take their minds off, as some young men in this meetin’ house
can. But the tavern is allus comfortable, an’ ther’s generally somebody
to sing a song and tell a joke, an’ they commence goin’ ther’ more fur a
pleasant time than for a drink, at fust. Ther’s lots of likely boys
goin’ there that I wish to God ’d stay away, an’ I’ve often felt like
tellin’ ’em so, but what’s the use? Where are they to go to?”
“They ort to flee from even the appearance of evil,” said Deacon Towser.
“But where be they to flee _to_, Deac’n?” persisted Joe Digg; “would you
like ’em to come a visitin’ to your house?”
“They can come to the church meetings,” replied the Deacon; “there’s two
in the week, besides Sundays, an’ some of ’em’s precious seasons—_all_
of ’em’s an improvement on the wicked tavern.”
“’Ligion don’t taste no better’n whiskey, tell you get used to it,” said
the drunkard, horrifying all the orthodox people at Backley, “an’ ’taint
made half so invitin’. ’Taint long ago I heerd ye tellin’ another deacon
that the church-members ort to be ’shamed of ’emselves, ’cos sca’cely
any of ’em come to the week-evenin’ meetin’s, so ye can’t blame the boys
at the tavern.”
“Does the gentleman mean to convey the idea that all drunkards become so
from justifying causes?” asked the lecturer.
“No, sir,” replied Joe Digg, “but I do mean to say that after you leave
out them that takes liquor to help ’em do a full day’s work, an’ them
that commence drinkin’ ’cos they’re at the tavern, an’ ain’t got no
where’s else to go, you’ve made a mighty big hole in the crowd of
drinkin’-men—bigger’n temperance meetin’s ever begin to make yit.”
“But how are they to be ‘left out’?” asked the lecturer.
“By temp’rance folks doin’ somethin’ beside talkin’,” replied the
drunkard. “For twenty year I’ve been lectured and scolded, an’ some good
men’s come to me with tears in their eyes, and put their arms ‘roun’ my
neck, an’ begged me to stop drinkin’. An’ I’ve wanted to, an’ tried to,
but when all the encouragement a man gits is in words, an’ no matter how
he commenced drinkin’, now ev’ry bone an’ muscle in him is a beggin’ fur
drink ez soon as he leaves off, an’ his mind’s dull, an’ he ain’t fit
fur much, an’ needs takin’ care of as p’tic’ler ez a mighty sick man,
talk’s jist as good ez wasted. Ther’s been times when ef I’d been ahead
on flour an’ meat an’ sich, I could a’ stopped drinkin’, but when a
man’s hungry, an’ ragged, an’ weak, and half-crazy, knowin’ how his
family’s fixed an he can’t do nothin’ fur ’em, an’ then don’t get
nothin’ but words to reform on, he’ll go back to the tavern ev’ry time,
an’ he’ll drink till he’s comfortable an’ till he forgits. I want the
people here, one an’ all, to understand that though I’m past helpin’
now, ther’s been fifty times in the last twenty year when I might hed
been stopped short, ef any body’d been sensible enough and good-hearted
enough to give me a lift.”
Joe Digg sat down, and there was a long pause. The Chairman whispered to
the leader of the Glee Club, and the club sang a song, but somehow it
failed to awaken the usual enthusiasm. After the singing had ended, the
Chairman himself took the floor and moved the appointment of a permanent
committee to look after the intemperate, and to collect funds when the
use of money seemed necessary, and the village doctor created a
sensation by moving that Mr. Joe Digg should be a member of the
committee. Deacon Towser, who was the richest man in the village, and
who dreaded subscription papers, started an insidious opposition by
eloquently vaunting the value of earnest prayer and of determined will,
in such cases, but the new member of the committee (though manifestly
out of order) outmanœuvred the Deacon by accepting both amendments, and
remarking that in a hard fight folks would take all the help they could
get.
Somehow, as soon as the new committee—determining to open a place of
entertainment in opposition to the tavern, and furnish it pleasantly,
and make it an attractive gathering-place for young men—asked for
contributions to enable them to do it, the temperance excitement at
Backley abated marvelously. But Squire Breet, and the doctor, and
several other enterprising men, took the entire burden on their own
shoulders—or pockets—and Joe Digg was as useful as a reformed thief to a
police department. For the doctor, whose professional education had left
him a large portion of his natural common sense in working order, took a
practical interest in the old drunkard’s case, and others of the
committee looked to the necessities of his family, and it came to pass
that Joe was one of the earliest of the reformers. Men still go to the
tavern at Backley, but as, even when the twelve spake with inspired
tongues, some people remained impenitent, the temperance men at Backley
feel that they have great cause for encouragement, and that they have,
at least, accomplished more within a few months than did all the
temperance meetings ever held in their village.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------