THE
BARTON EXPERIMENT
BY THE AUTHOR OF “HELEN’S BABIES”
NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
182 FIFTH AVENUE
1877
Copyright
BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
1876
PREFACE.
This book is not offered to the public as a finished romance, or even
as an attempt at one; the persons who appear on its pages are not
only not those who inspire pretty stories, but they are so literally
the representatives of individuals who have lived that they cannot
well be separated from their natural surroundings. It has seemed
to the author that if American people could behold some of the
men who have astonished themselves and others by their success as
reformers, individual effort would not be so rare in communities where
organization is not so easily effected, and where unfortunates are
ruined in the midst of their neighbors, while organization is being
hoped for. It is more than possible, too, that the accepted business
principle that the pocket is the source of power, is not as clearly
recognized as it should be in reform movements, and that the struggles
of some of the characters outlined herein may throw some light upon
this unwelcome but absolute fact.
The ideal reformer, the man of great principles and eloquent arguments,
fails to appear in these pages, not because of any doubts as to his
existence, but because his is a mental condition to which men attain
without much stimulus from without, while it need not be feared that in
the direction of individual effort and self-denial, the greatest amount
of suggestion will ever urge any one too far.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
REFORMERS AT WHITE HEAT 1
CHAPTER II.
BUSINESS _VS._ PHILANTHROPY 13
CHAPTER III.
A WET BLANKET 23
CHAPTER IV.
REFORM WITH MONEY IN IT 34
CHAPTER V.
AN ASTONISHED VIRGINIAN 46
CHAPTER VI.
A COURSE NEVER SMOOTH 59
CHAPTER VII.
SOME NATURAL RESULTS 73
CHAPTER VIII.
AN ESTIMABLE ORGANIZATION CRITICISED 83
CHAPTER IX.
SOME VOLUNTEER SHEPHERDS 96
CHAPTER X.
BRINGING HOME THE SHEEP 105
CHAPTER XI.
DOCTORS AND BOYS 113
CHAPTER XII.
TWO SIDES OF A CLOUD 122
CHAPTER XIII.
A PHENOMENON IN EMBRYO 132
CHAPTER XIV.
SAILING UP STREAM 146
CHAPTER XV.
A FIRST INWARD PEEP 161
CHAPTER XVI.
A REFORMER DISAPPOINTED 174
CHAPTER XVII.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MATTER 186
THE BARTON EXPERIMENT.
CHAPTER I.
REFORMERS AT WHITE HEAT.
Long and loud rang all the church bells of Barton on a certain summer
evening twenty years ago. It was not a Sunday evening, for during
an accidental lull there was heard, afar off yet distinctly, the
unsanctified notes of the mail-carrier’s horn. And yet the doors of
the village stores, which usually stood invitingly open until far into
the night, were now tightly closed, while the patrons of the several
drinking-shops of Barton congregated quietly within the walls of their
respective sources of inspiration, instead of forming, as was their
usual wont, lively groups on the sidewalk.
The truth was, Barton was about to indulge in a monster temperance
meeting. The “Sons of Temperance,” as well as the “Daughters” and
“Cadets” thereof, the “Washingtonians,” the “Total Abstinence Society,”
and all various religious bodies in the village had joined their forces
for a grand demonstration against King Alcohol. The meeting had been
appropriately announced, for several successive Sundays, from each
pulpit in Barton; the two school-teachers of Barton had repeatedly
informed their pupils of the time and object of the meeting; the
“Barton Register” had devoted two leaders and at least a dozen items
to the subject; and a poster, in the largest type and reddest ink
which the “Register” office could supply, confronted one at every
fork and crossing of roads leading to and from Barton, and informed
every passer-by that Major Ben Bailey, the well-known champion of the
temperance cause, would address the meeting, that the “Crystal Spring
Glee Club” would sing a number of stirring songs, and that the Barton
Brass Band had also been secured for the evening. The only inducement
which might have been lacking was found at the foot of the poster, in
the two words, “Admittance Free.”
No wonder the villagers crowded to the Methodist Church, the most
commodious gathering-place in the town. Long before the bells had
ceased clanging the church was so full that children occupying full
seats were accommodatingly taken on the laps of their parents, larger
children were lifted to the window-sills, deaf people were removed from
the pews to the altar steps, and chairs were brought from the various
residences and placed in the aisles. Outside the church, crowds stood
about near the windows, while more prudent persons made seats of logs
from the woodpile which the country members of the congregation had
already commenced to form against the approaching winter.
A sudden hush of the whispering multitude ushered in the clergy of
Barton, and, for once, the four reverend gentlemen really seemed
desirous of uniting against a common enemy instead of indulging in
their customary quadrangular duel. Then, amid a general clapping of
hands, the members of the Crystal Spring Glee Club filed in and took
reserved seats at the right of the altar; while the Barton Brass Band,
announced by a general shriek of “Oh!” from all the children present,
seated themselves on a raised platform on the left.
Squire Tomple, the richest and fattest citizen of the town, was
elected chairman, and accepted with a benignant smile. Then the
Reverend Timotheus Brown, the oldest pastor in the village, prayed
earnestly that intemperance might cease to reign. Squire Tomple then
called on the band for some instrumental music, which was promptly
given and loudly applauded, after which the Crystal Spring Glee Club
sang a song with a rousing chorus. Then there was a touching dialogue
between a pretended drunkard and his mother, in which the graceless
youth was brought to a knowledge of the error of his ways, and moved
to make a very full and grammatical confession. Then the band played
another air, and the Glee Club sang “Don’t you go, Tommy,” and
there was a tableau entitled “The First Glass,” and another of “The
Drunkard’s Home,” after which the band played still another air. Then a
member of the Executive Committee stepped on tiptoe up to the chairman
and whispered to him, and the chairman assumed an air of dignified
surprise, edged expectantly to one side of his chair, and finally arose
suddenly as another member of the Executive Committee entered the rear
door arm-in-arm with the great Major Ben Bailey himself.
The committee-man introduced the Major to the chairman, who in turn
made the Major acquainted with the reverend clergy; the audience
indulged in a number of critical and approving glances and whispers,
and then the chair announced that the speaker of the evening would now
instruct and entertain those there present. The speaker of the evening
cleared his throat, took a swallow of water, threw his head back,
thrust one hand beneath his coat-tails, and opened his discourse.
He was certainly a very able speaker. He explained in a few words the
nature of alcohol, and what were its unvarying effects upon the human
system; proved to the satisfaction and horror of the audience, from
reports of analyses and from liquor-dealers’ handbooks, that most
liquors were adulterated, and with impure and dangerous materials;
explained how the use of beer and light wines created a taste for
stronger liquors; showed the fallacy of the idea that liquor was in
any sense nutritious; told a number of amusing stories about men who
had been drunk; displayed figures showing how many pounds of bread and
meat might be bought with the money spent in the United States for
liquor, how many comfortable homes the same money would build, how many
suits of clothing it would pay for, how many churches it would erect,
and how soon it would pay the National Debt (which in those days was
foolishly considered large enough to be talked about). Then, after
drawing a touching picture of the drunkard’s home, and dramatically
describing the horrors of the drunkard’s death, the gallant Major made
an eloquent appeal to all present to forsake forever the poisonous
bowl, and dropped into his seat amid a perfect thunder of applause.
The lecture had been a powerful one; it was evident that the speaker
had formed a deep impression on the minds of his hearers, for when
the pledge was circulated, men and women who never drank snatched it
eagerly and appended their names, some parents even putting pencils
into baby fingers, and with devout pride helping the little ones
to trace their names. Nor were the faithful alone in earnestness,
for a loud shout of “Bless the Lord!” from Father Baguss, who was
circulating one of the pledges, attracted attention to the fact that
the document was being signed by George Doughty, Squire Tomple’s own
book-keeper, one of the most promising young men in Barton, except that
he occasionally drank. Then the list of names taken in the gallery was
read, and it was ascertained that Tom Adams, who drove the brick-yard
wagon, and whose sprees were mighty in length and magnitude, had also
signed. Half a dozen men hurried into the gallery to congratulate
Tom Adams, and so excited that gentleman that he took a pledge and a
pencil, went into the crowd outside the church, and soon returned with
the names of some of the heaviest drinkers in town.
The excitement increased. Cool-headed men--men who rarely or never
drank, yet disapproved of binding pledges--gave in their names almost
before they knew it. Elder Hobbedowker moved a temporary suspension
of the circulation of the pledges until the Lord could be devoutly
thanked for this manifestation of his grace; then the good elder
assumed that his motion had been put and carried, and he immediately
made an earnest prayer. During the progress of the prayer the leader
of the band--perhaps irreverently, but acting under the general
excitement--brought his men to attention, and the elder’s “Amen” was
drowned in the opening crash of a triumphal march. Then the Glee
Club sang “Down with Rum,” but were brought to a sudden stop by the
chairman, who excused himself by making the important announcement
that their fellow-citizen, Mr. Crupp, who had been a large vender of
intoxicating beverages, had declared his intention to abandon the
business forever. The four pastors shook hands enthusiastically with
each other; while, in response to deafening cheers, the heroic Crupp
himself was thrust upon the platform, where, with a trembling voice
and a pale though determined face, he reaffirmed his decision. Old
Parson Fish hobbled to the front of the pulpit, straightened his bent
back until his mien had at once some of the lamb and the lion about
it, and, raising his right hand authoritatively, started the doxology,
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” in which he was devoutly and
uproariously joined by the whole assemblage. This done, the people,
by force of habit, waited a moment as if expecting the benediction;
then remembering it was not Sunday, they broke into a general and
very enthusiastic chat, which ceased only when the sexton, who was a
creature of regular habits, announced from the pulpit that the oil
in the lamps would last only a few minutes longer, and that _he_ had
promised to be at home by ten o’clock.
Squire Tomple took the arm of the penitent Crupp and appropriated him
in full. There was a great deal to Squire Tomple besides avoirdupois,
and when thoroughly aroused, his enthusiasm was of a magnitude
consistent with his size. Besides, Squire Tomple was in the habit
of having his own way, as became the richest man in Barton, and he
appropriated Mr. Crupp as a matter of course. With Mr. Crupp on his
arm and the great cause in his heart, he appeared to himself so fully
the master of the situation that the foul fiend of drunkenness seemed
conquered forever, and the Squire swung his cane with a triumphal
violence which seriously threatened the safety of the villagers in
front of and behind him.
The Squire held his peace while surrounded by the home-going crowd, as
rightly became a great man; but when he had turned into the street in
which Mr. Crupp lived, he said, with due condescension,
“Crupp, you’ve done the right thing; you _might_ have done it sooner,
but you can do a great deal of good yet.”
The ex-rumseller quietly replied,
“Yes, if I’m helped at it.”
“Helped? Of course you’ll be helped, if you pray for it. You’ve
repented; now address the throne of grace, and----”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Mr. Crupp. “I’m not entirely unacquainted
with the Lord, if I _have_ sold rum. You know his sun shines on the
just and the unjust, and I’ve had a good share of it. It’s help from
men that I want, and am afraid that I can’t get it.”
“Why, Crupp,” remonstrated the Squire, “you must have made something
out of your business, if it _is_ an infernal one.”
“I don’t mean that,” replied Mr. Crupp, a little tartly. “You’ve been
on your little drunks when you were young, of course?”
The Squire almost twitched Mr. Crupp off the sidewalk, as he exclaimed,
with righteous indignation,
“I never was drunk in my life.”
“Oh!” said the convert. “Well, some have, and pledges won’t quiet an
uneasy stomach, no way you can fix ’em. Them that never drank are all
right, but the drinking boys that signed to-night’ll be awful thirsty
in the morning.”
“Well,” said the Squire, “_they_ must pray, and act like men.”
“Some of ’em don’t believe in prayin’, and some of ’em can’t act like
men, because ’tisn’t in ’em. There’s men that seem to need whisky as
much as they need bread; leastways, they don’t seem able to do without
it.”
“If I’d been you, and believed that, Crupp,” replied the Squire, with
noticeable coolness and deliberation, “I wouldn’t have signed the
pledge; that is, I wouldn’t have stopped selling liquor.”
“P’r’aps not,” returned the ex-rumseller; “but with me it’s different.
There’s some men that b’lieves that sellin’ a woman a paper of pins,
and measurin’ out a quart of tar for a farmer, is small business, an’
beneath ’em, but they stick to it. Now I believe I’m too much of a man
to sell whisky, so I’ve stopped.”
The Squire took the rebuke in silence; however much his face may
have flushed, there were in Barton no tell-tale gas-lamps to make
his discomfort visible. The Squire had grown rich as a vender of the
thousand little things sold in country stores; he had many a time
declared that storekeeping was a dog’s life, and that he, Squire
Tomple, was everybody’s nigger--but he made no attempt to change his
business.
“What I mean,” continued Mr. Crupp, “by needin’ help, is this: I know
just about how much every drinkin’ man in town takes, an’ when he takes
it, an’ about when he gets on his sprees. Now, if there’s anybody to
take an interest in these fellows at such times, they’re going to have
plenty of chances mighty soon.”