University of Virginia Library

THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE.

By Amerel.

One hot afternoon two gentlemen were riding together
near the village of R— in one of the Middle
States. When they reached a cross-road which
led directly through the village, the one who held the
reins, stopped the horse, and turning to the other
said:—

“Ought we not to do something in this village?”

“We cannot,” said the other. “We must reach
Lancaster before the close of the week, and you know
how much we have to do after that. Don't let us
pause, unless it be impossible to avoid it.”

“We can easily make up one day's loss,” said the
first speaker. “Besides there is misery to relieve as
well in a village as in a city. Yonder I see a tavern
sign swinging; our opponents, you see, have already
obtained a foothold, and ought we not to make an
effort to dispossess them?”

“But how shall we make up the loss of time?”

“Stay here to night and to morrow; hold our meeting
to morrow night; and then travel until morning.

We shall thus gain at least half a day. As to the remainder,
leave it to me.”

“Well, drive up the road.” The two men were
soon in the village.

On the following day it was announced that a
Temperance meeting would be held that evening, in
an old building, which had last been used as a school-house.
The church could not be obtained.

When the cause of Temperance first began to excite
public attention, it is well known that such an
announcement would throw the most retired country
village into an uproar. Such was the case at R—.
Some, who did not clearly understand what Temperance
was, clamoured against the attempt to take
away their liberty. Others, with appetites whetted
by opposition, declared that they would rather
resign both meat and clothing, than resign their morning
potations of gin and hard cider. A few, zealous
in the cause of education, denounced the authorities
which had granted the school-house to the Temperance
men, and declared it an insult to an enlightened
population. Some were for excluding the
strangers from the village; and despairing to accomplish
the act by force of argument, they talked vehemently
of a right inherited from their ancestors of
keeping the moral atmosphere of R— pure, if not
by fair means by foul.

Such were a few of the speculations and opinions
that disturbed this little village, during the day which
preceded the holding of the Temperance meeting.
In spite of them the school-house was crowded; for

curiosity, that busy principle, is pre-eminently busy
among the inhabitants of a village. Some had come
merely to see the lecturers; some to excite disturbance;
a few, well versed in village lore, to advocate
the cause of cider drinking; and some, with a determination
to disgorge their loaded pockets of stones,
corn-cobs, chicken-bones and other missiles—all of
course designed for the heads of the lecturers. For
half an hour, while the audience collected, a din,
like that of any Babel, of all languages and meanings,
arose from the motley audience, baffling the efforts of
the self-constituted committee of order, and threatening
to demolish the crazy building, whose joists and walls
were already cracking. Many of the peacefully disposed
retired; leaving a fair field of operations to
those who had taken the management of the prelude
into their own hands.

Such were the discouraging prospects, under which
the first speaker mounted the decayed platform where
the teacher's desk formerly stood. He was a tall,
stout man, with the brow and eye of an orator, and
an attitude to awe a mob. Placing his hands behind
him, he looked calmly upon his audience, until as if
by magic, a deep silence pervaded every part of the
room. Then, with a voice which had been modified
to winning softness by experience in many a similar
scene, he began—

“My friends, permit me to relate to you a true
story.” They listened. He told of one who had
been the hope of the household, in which she lived.
He described her, young, innocent, happy, beloved

by her friends, sought eagerly by men of high standing
in society—of her marriage with one who seemed
worthy of her, and the merry pledges which accompanied
the wedding scene—of a few years of happiness—and
then of the crushing reaction which made
her a drunkard's wife, and hurried her heart-broken
to the grave. Then while his audience hung breathless
upon his words, he poured forth in rapid and
brilliant arguments his reasons against the use of
alcoholic drinks. His hearers maintained profound
silence and seemed pondering over the words which
fell from his lips. Before he ceased a visible change
was observed in the aspect of all in the room.

The other speaker arose. He had not the commanding
figure of his friend, but his voice was deep
and powerful, and went directly to the heart. The
first speaker had pointed to the evil of intemperance—
he showed the remedy. He spoke of the manly
struggle with temptation, of the fallen reclaimed, of
the joy over a prodigal, who, having been lost, was
found. He also related anecdotes; but they were
soothing and encouraging. Tears of ecstatic joy flowed
from many eyes while he spoke.

Lectures like these had never been heard in R—.
Men, half ruined by intoxication, shuddered as they
saw their condition, for the first time, in its true light.
Mothers, who had given small drams of cider or rum
to their children, silently vowed to abandon, altogether,
so dangerous a practice; young men examined
their habits, wives wept in bitter grief as they recognized,
in the pictures delineated, traces of their own

sad experience. Those who had come to excite disturbance
were orderly; those who had boasted of
their skill in advocating cider drinking, sat speech
less. People who had grown gray amid the ravages
of intemperance, wondered why, for the first time,
they began to consider it a great evil.

“And now,” exclaimed the second speaker, when
he had finished his lecture, “who will sign the tee-total
pledge?”

“I will,” said a poor old woman, who sat on a
broken box close to the platform. She arose, and
with much difficulty, hobbled towards the lecturer.
“I was once as young, and rich, and happy as the
poor girl that the other gentleman told about. But
rum made me poor. Thank heaven, I can still write
my name to the temperance pledge!”

“And I will sign it,” said a miserable-looking man,
in front of the orators. “Sir,” he said to the second
speaker, “I came here to throw stones at you! Here
they are!”—he drew a handful of stones from his
pocket—“I did not believe you would tell the truth.
Now, I think differently. Every word you say is true.
I was a fool that I did not see it before. My father
taught me to drink, for he gave me rum, sweetened
with sugar, when I was a little boy. I could curse
him, but I will not He is already cursed. Once I
was a merchant. Look at me now! But I'll sign
the pledge, and keep it, too.”

“So will I,” exclaimed a bloated old man, of some
twelve stone in weight, as he rose suddenly from
among the audience. A great sensation was visible.

“There's Squire Dawson! Squire Dawson's going
to sign!” was whispered in every part of the room.
The squire hobbled up the aisle with a gait which
evinced irresistible symptoms of gout; and, seizing
the pen, wrote his name with a trembling hand. Then
straightening himself as well as he could, he faced
the lectures, and exclaimed—

“Every word you have said is true. Rum has
ruined me, and it ruined my poor boy, Charles, who
lies in yonder churchyard. I have done ten times
more mischief by drinking rum, than I have corrected
by enforcing the law.”

By this time another man had pressed up towards
the platform. He was not more than twenty-eight
years old; but indulgence in liquor and other abuses
had whitened his hair, and bent his shoulders as
though by the weight of years. His face evinced
much intelligence, and there was in his features a
mysterious sadness, which at once arrested the beholder's
attention. Soon as the squire had finished
speaking, this young man stooped down and enrolled
his name on the pledge.

“Mary will be glad of it, in heaven!” exclaimed
the squire, grasping his friend's hand.

“I believe she will,” said the other, solemnly.

“Gentlemen,” said the squire to the lecturers, in a
voice which long habit had rendered authoritative,
“this young man is my nephew. He became an orphan
at the age of thirteen, since which time he has lived
under my roof. He studied law in Philadelphia, and,
for a while, he seemed on the high road to success.

Rum ruined every thing; he and I were alike in
that respect. He loved a sweet creature whom we
called Mary—the daughter of a physician who once
lived in this village. Rum killed him, too, poor fellow.
Mary was proud to be the chosen one of my
nephew. It was a sad parting when he went to study
at Philadelphia—she could scarcely give him up.
Every day, as we found out afterwards, she wrote
something about him in a small journal, and counted
the time which he had to stay. At last, it slowly
moved round. He returned; but he was altered—I
need not tell you how. Poor Mary! it broke her
heart! We buried her in the churchyard, beside my
boy, Charles. There have been sad times since then,
for both of us.”

The two men sat down, amid silence interrupted
only by sobs. Others came forward to sign the
pledge; so that it was nearly eleven o'clock before
the meeting adjourned. Forty-two names had been
enrolled in the temperance cause!

The two men gazed upon each other in wonder and
thankfulness. What a work had been done in the
short space of one evening!

“Do you still regret,” said one of them to his companion,
“that we have been detained for a day?”

“My friend,” was the reply, “would that we
might lose every day in this manner.”

Nor did the good effects of that one effort stop
after those with whom it had originated left the village.
On the following day, several men were gathering
in their harvest in the fields near the village

They had been at the meeting of the previous evening,
and the names of two or three of them were enrolled
upon the pledge. When the hour for dinner
arrived, they collected under a large tree, and while
eating, began to converse upon the subject of the
lectures.

“Do you think old Squire Dawson will keep the
pledge?” asked one.

“I have no doubt of it, John. I never saw the old
man so resolute in any undertaking before. But did
you see Briggs, the tavern-keeper?”

“No. Was he there?”

“Yes. Every body thinks he came to make disturbance.
He missed it, though. While the first man
was lecturing, he appeared very uneasy, shuffling
about from side to side, as if he thought all of us were
watching him; but soon as he saw the squire get
up, he pushed for the door in double quick time. He
knows the squire could tell a tale about him, if he
chose.”

“I heard that his tavern has not been opened this
morning,” said a man, named Greene.

“Pity that it ever should,” answered another.
“But who would think that so much could be said in
favour of temperance?”

“Or so-much done?”

“And why cannot more be done?” exclaimed the
one they had called John. “Why may we not form
a small temperance society, and have rules and regular
meetings, like other societies, and invite persons

to lecture for us, and endeavour to prevent some in
this village from becoming drunkards?”

“That is an excellent thought,” replied Greene.

“Suppose we give notice to our friends that a
meeting to form the society will be held to-morrow
night, at the school-house?”

“Agreed!” they all exclaimed.

One of them, who had not signed the pledge on the
previous evening, drew something from his basket.

“I will begin,” said he, “by throwing this rum
bottle, which has spoiled many a fine lunch, into the
creek there.” He did so, with the approbation of his
companions.

The meeting was held on the following evening.
A large society was formed under the most promising
circumstances, and its members went forth already
armed with an influence powerful for good. Such
were the immediate effects of the first temperance
lecture in the village of R—. “A word spoken in
season, how good it is!”