The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
 | THE
BANNER OF TEMPERANCE. MIKE SMILEY. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
 |
|
 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
THE
BANNER OF TEMPERANCE.
MIKE SMILEY.
By Father Frane.
“Such stuff are Yankees made of.”
1. CHAPTER I.
There is a small village on the west bank of the
Connecticut, not many miles from the point where the
boundaries of three states meet. The houses, at the
time our tale commences, were few and scattered; and
there was nothing in the aspect of the greater part of
them that would either attract the attention or invite
the stay of the passing traveller. They were low,
dark, without ornament, either of architecture, or horticulture,
and almost without any of the ordinary signs
of comfort, which so commonly accompany the cottage
of a New England farmer. The fences which here
and there appeared in broken patches, straggling, or
rather staggering from field to field, or from house to
generation which placed them there in due order and
stability, and the degeneracy of the present, which had
left them to decay and the winds. Every thing about
the village was in keeping with the fences, and, as a
matter of course, the animals and the children, (I
name them in the order of apparent intelligence and
cultivation,) were in no keeping at all. The fields
were the best possible illustration that modern times
can afford, of the garden of the sluggard, so well described
by Solomon; except that, in this case, the soil
seemed to be so utterly exhausted, that even the brier
refused to grow there, and the thistle scorned to be
seen in the stinted growth to which alone it could
attain. The white-headed children, and the equally
white-bodied pigs, among whom they played and rolled
in their dirt, as their fit companions and equals, gave
to the passer-by the only signs of life the village afforded,
save when, occasionally, a broken-down, withered
figure of a woman, issued from the door of her hut,
to draw water from the common well, or gather up a
few chips, or, more probably, abstract another rail from
the useless fence, to keep alive the scanty embers that
were smoking on the cheerless hearth.
It was about noon of a sultry day in August, when a
traveller on horseback rode slowly through the village,
on his way to the mansion of a friend, about five miles
above, on the banks of the river, but within the precincts
of the same town, of which the village was a
part. He was tall, well formed, and handsome. His
dress was that of a sportsman, and a beautiful pointer
hanging as if it would drop from his mouth, confirmed
the suspicion suggested by his dress. The horse and the
rider were evidently equally languid and fatigued; and
at every cottage as they passed, there seemed to be on
the countanence of each an expression of despairing
disappointment, that no one offered any temptation for
even a temporary halt to man or beast. From the
outward appearance, a sojourn in any of them would
have been any thing but repose or refreshment to the
traveller, while the shadeless aspect of the yards and
fields would but leave the horse exposed to the unmitigated
heat of the sun.
Fatigue and thirst, however, are urgent solicitors,
and, in their extremes, not over fastidious. They
would not be denied; and our traveller, after turning
in disgust from seven, made a desperate resolve that
at all events the next house should furnish what it
could for his relief. As he approached it, his courage
began to fail, for, if possible, it looked more cheerless
than any he had passed. But his mind once made
up, he seldom allowed himself to hesitate; and, with
a firm hand he turned the head of his over-wearied
beast towards the door of the miserable tenement in
which old Zeb Smiley, familiarly known in the neighbourhood
as Giant Zeb, had been for three-score and
seven years content to vegetate, and to see a numerous
progeny of stripling giants of the same name,
awake to the same kind of equivocal life, and creep
through the same kind of semi-vegetable existence.
Wallowing in the dirt before the door, was the last of
name of Hopeful Mike, selected for its peculiar inappropriateness,
had now become as familiar as his own
thoughts. Noticing the first inclination of the traveller
to turn aside at his father's door, he scrambled up
from the dirt, shook his rags, somewhat as a shaggy
water-dog would do on emerging from the water; and
with a regard for decency which appeared singular in
such a place, and such a person, adjusted the more
important of them, so as to make them as available as
possible. Finding that the traveller was actually intent
upon alighting, Mike made bold to seize the bridle,
and to ask, in a very respectful manner, if he
might hold the horse.
“There is little fear,” replied the stranger, “that he
will attempt to move, for he is so overcome by the
heat, that he is scarcely able to put one foot before the
other. If you will bring me a pail of water I will
thank you.”
Pleased with any thing that afforded even a momen
tary relief from the stagnant monotony of mere being,
Mike rushed into the hovel, and immediately re-appeared
with an odd-looking, and exceedingly antiquated
apology for a bucket, accommodated, in the absence
of its original iron handle, with a rope which had
seen much service. He was followed, on the instant,
by as poor and shrivelled piece of mortality as ever
claimed the name of woman, screaming after him in
a tone quite above the practical gamut, between the
laboured wheeze of the asthma, and the screech of extreme
terror. “You lazy, good-for-nothing little varmint,
back, this moment, or I'll skin ye alive.”
Surprised at a sight, so unusual, as a gentleman
halting at her door, Mrs. Smiley no sooner put her
ungainly visage out of the humble portal than she
withdrew it again to consider what could be the possible
design of so unexpected a visit. Unwilling to
intrude upon the rights, or disregard the wishes of even
the most humble individual, the courteous stranger
approached the door and apologized for the disturbance
he had occasioned, by explaining the circumstance
of his long and weary ride in the heat of the day, his
extreme fatigue, and the absolute necessity of obtaining
some refreshment for his horse before he could
proceed, and adding, that he had asked of her boy
the favour of a bucket of water for his horse.
True politeness never fails to win its way to the
heart, even of a savage. And he who would soothe
and subdue a woman, has only to use a gentle courteous,
conciliating address, and his purpose is accomplished.
In a mild and gratified tone, Mrs. Smiley
assured the stranger he was entirely welcome to any
thing her miserable hut could afford, which was little
enough, to be sure, for such a gentleman. She wished
it was better, but—
“I beg you will make no apologies,” interrupted
the stranger. “It is I who should apologize for disturbing
your house, and not you for your lack of
means to entertain me. It is not for myself that I
need attention so much as for my beast; and, if you
While this brief conversation was going on, Mike
had begun to busy himself with the horse, and he
showed so much skill and aptness in hostelry, that the
traveller, when he turned that way, was fain to leave
to him the task he had intended to perform with his
own hands. Heated and reeking as the noble animal
then was, it was as much as his life was worth
to set before him so large a bucket of water. But
Mike evidently understood his business, though it
would be difficult to conjecture where he had ever had
an opportunity to handle a horse before, or to learn
how he should be treated. The operation occupied
some ten or fifteen minutes, during which the weary
traveller sat upon a rude bench, near the door of the
hovel, watching the movements of the boy, and wondering
in himself how he could have acquired so
much knowledge of hostelry.
“You have been well taught, my boy,” said he,
“in the care of horses. There are few experienced
grooms who could have done it better, and certainly
none who would have been more faithful. Where
did you learn this art?”
“I never larnt nothing,” replied the boy, still continuing
to rub down the breast and legs of the beast
with unabated zeal, and occasionally dashing a cool
handful into his nostrils. “I never larnt nothing, only
I heard Jim, the stage-driver, when he stopped one
day at Uncle Nat's shop to have a shoe fastened,
scolding at Sam for giving his horses water to drink
legs, with a leetle washing of their tongues and noses,
besides being a tarnal sight safer than drinking when
they were all in a lather.”
There was nothing remarkable in this long speech
of Mike's except its length; and it is doubtful if he
had ever before put so many words together in one
sentence. But there was a heartiness of tone and
accent about it that attracted the notice of the stranger;
and when, a few minutes after, as he was in the
act of remounting his saddle, he slipped a piece of
money into the hand of the astonished and delighted
boy, with many thanks for the service he had rendered,
he added a word of courteous encouragement, and a
prediction that he would one day be master of a horse
of his own.
The suggestion touched the deepest chord that had
ever vibrated in the heart of Hopeful Mike. Stagnant
and uneventful as his brief life had been, he had
not been without an occasional aspiration after something
higher. He had dreamed of being something
and doing something for himself. He had even
soared so high in his dreams, as to imagine it possible
that he might, at some future day, attain to the dignity
of a stage-driver. This was his climax of human
greatness. He had never seen a character of so much
importance, one whose periodical arrival was so
anxiously waited for and so heartily welcomed, or one
whose authority in all matters was so absolute, as that
of Jim Crawford, the good-natured driver of the Connecticut
river stage.
2. CHAPTER II.
A few days after this incident, Mike was indulging
himself in this day-dream of ambition, as he lay,
stretched at full length on the bank of the river, in
the shade of the noble elm. His thoughts could
hardly be said to have any definite shape or end, but
straggled on in a kind of disjointed reverie, occasionally
interrupted by a low whistling soliloquy, to which
he was much addicted. Suddenly, his quick ear was
arrested by the distant tramping of a horse. Starting
quickly up, he was surprised to see a noble animal,
which he recognized at once as the same which now
occupied most of his thoughts, in the act of leaping a
broad ditch that intersected the field some sixty or
eighty rods from the place where he was. He was
fully caparisoned, but without a rider. The leap was
one that by common consent would have been called
impossible; but it was accomplished with apparent
ease. Tossing his head wildly, the beautiful creature,
the very embodiment of untameable beauty and
power, flew with the speed of the wind towards a
deep and broken ravine that separated the open field
from a thick and tangled wood beyond.
To follow at the top of his speed was only a natural
impulse with Mike. He did not ask himself what
was to be gained by it. The object of his pursuit was
soon out of sight, but not out of hearing. Guided by
glimpse of the flying animal just dashing over the
brow of a precipice some twenty feet high, from which
he conceived it impossible that he could ever be
brought back alive. In an instant more, however, he
was seen darting across the interval below towards
the river, into which he flung himself with a plunge,
that seemed as if he had intended to span its entire
breadth at a leap.
Powerfully and beautifully he dashed aside the
waters, and was soon on the opposite shore. The
bank was high, steep, and sandy. The spot where
he landed was only a little narrow shelf of rock, two
or three rods in length, the bank at either end being
as precipitous as that on the side. There was therefore
no escape except through the water. Thus suddenly
cut off in his flight, he paused a moment unresolved,
and then plunged in again, and made his
way rapidly towards the other shore.
Mike had watched all his motions with intense interest,
and well knowing that his blood would be
cooled and his mettle reduced, as well as his strength
much exhausted by this effort, prepared to receive
him in the best way he could. Concealing himself
in the thick bushes that overhung the bank, at the
point where, from the direction taken, he supposed
the horse would come out, he waited for that moment
of suspended power, when the effort to swim gives
way to the struggle for a footing on the shore; and
then suddenly and boldly seizing the rein, made an
easy prisoner of the nearly exhausted fugitive.
Securing his charge to a tree, he began to think
that it was time to look for his master. He accordingly
hastened towards the place where the horse had
been first seen. Reaching the other side of the gully,
he gave a loud “halloo!” Hearing no response, he
followed the track a few rods, till it was lost in a
small thicket. Repeating his cry at the entrance of
the wood, with a clear, long, earnest breath, he thought
he heard a very indistinct reply, as of some one at a
great distance. Raising his voice to its highest pitch,
he reiterated the call. A low, faint moan, as of one
in extreme pain and weakness, now fell on his ear.
Making his way quickly in the direction from which
it came, he soon found the body of his late friend, the
young traveller, lying in a most painful position,
across the trunk of a fallen tree, and covered with
blood, from a wound in the head.
Exerting all the strength he could command, which
was very great for one of his years, Mike raised the
body from the tree, and laid it gently on the ground,
placing a large tuft of moss for a pillow. He then
ran to a little brook, which discharged itself into the
river, a few yards below, and rolling up two of the
broadest leaves he could find into a conical form, for
a cup, filled them both with water, which he dashed
into the face of the wounded man. This he repeated
two or three times, and then, with a sponge of moss,
wiped away the blood from the temples and hair.
The sufferer was so far revived by these attentions,
as to open his eyes, though still unconscious. Encouraged
by this sign of returning life, Mike renewed
instinct, and the cooling draught found its way to
the parched tongue and throat. This was repeated
several times, with the happiest effect. The poor
man opened his eyes again, and looked about him.
For some time he was bewildered and it was many
minutes before he could recall to his memory the
countenance of his kind attendant, or account to himself
for his own singular situation. At length, after
another full draught from the cooling brook, he was
so far recovered as to be able to speak. With the
warmest thanks, and assurances of a more substantial
remembrance to his deliverer, from whom he had
learned the story of the flight, and re-capture of his
horse, he recounted the circumstances which brought
him into his present sad condition.
He had set out in the morning, on a fox-hunt in
company with his friend, Charles Wilkins, and some
of his neighbours. The party had separated at a considerable
distance from each other, when suddenly
the signal was given on the opposite side of the
valley, and all set off at full speed in that direction.
He was following rapidly, when another fox started
from a little thicket, and flew across his track. Instantly
changing his course, he gave chase, determined
to have the sport all to himself. He was gaining
fast upon his game, when, in leaping over the
fallen tree, where Mike had found him, his head must
have come in violent contact with the projecting
point of a broken limb, which he did not see in season
to avoid it. Stunned by the blow, and thrown
to move; and in that position he must have lain a full
half hour or more, when Mike discovered him. A
half hour longer, and probably life would have been
extinct.
As soon as he felt able to be left alone for a few
minutes, Mike was despatched for assistance. A litter
was brought, the sufferer was carefully placed
upon it, and, followed, by his horse, which Mike had
the proud satisfaction of being permitted to lead, conveyed
From that day a new era dawned upon the hopes
of Hopeful Mike. Eugene Ralston—for that was
the name of his patron, whose life he had so singularly
been instrumental in saving—immediately
claimed him as his own, and, with the ready consent
of his parents, installed him as groom to his favourite
charger. His rags were exchanged for a neat suit of
iron-gray cassimere, a glazed cap with a broad gilt
band, and other equipments to correspond. The story
of his kind attentions, and ready ingenuity in relieving
the distressed sportsman, as well as his success
in waylaying and capturing his horse, was in every
body's mouth. His name was honourably mentioned
in the newspapers, in connexion with the accident
that had befallen Mr. Ralston. And it was now manifest
to all, that, if there was any thing in Mike to
build upon, his fortune was made.
3. CHAPTER III.
Eugene Ralston belonged to one of the most respectable
and wealthy families in New England;
and Mike, as the preserver of his life, was the object
of the regard and gratitude of all his friends. He was
immediately placed at school, where he made such
shoot ahead of some who had enjoyed the same privileges
from their earliest childhood.
Emerging so suddenly from the total darkness and
stagnant inactivity of his early life, into the broad
blaze of comfort, intelligence, and respectability, it
would not have been surprising if he had been entirely
overcome by the change, and thrown into the
back-ground. But there was, in the original elements
of his character, something substantial to build upon.
He could not have remained in his own native village
to the age of manhood, without rising above the level
of all about him. And now, when he had every advantage,
and every encouragement, which the glorious
system of New England education could afford, he
seemed, almost at a single stride, to measure the distance
between midnight and morning—between the
condition of semi-barbarism and that of civilization
and refinement, such as is found in the metropolis.
Every thing was new—every thing was surprising.
He could sometimes hardly believe the evidence of
his senses, or realize that the race of beings with
whom he was now associated was a part of the same
family with those among whom he had always lived.
He was less dazzled by the splendour and luxury of
the city, than awed and elevated by the sense of human
power, as exhibited in the wonderful achievements of
intelligence, skill, and industry. Young as he was,
he perceived, almost at a glance, that it was not so
much wealth, as a well-directed intelligence, and a
high moral estimate of the true ends and aims of life,
society to which he was now introduced, and that
which he had left. And he at once resolved that no
effort should be wanting on his part, to secure all the
advantages which his new situation afforded him. He
therefore applied himself with a diligence and zeal
that could not have failed, even with powers far inferior
to his own, to reap a large and rich reward. His
progress was rapid and easy; so much so, that a year
had not passed before Mr. Ralston perceived, that to
carry out his original design, of attaching Mike to
himself as a servant, would be doing him great injustice.
He not only made himself acquainted with every
subject that was brought before him, but he mastered
it; as far at least as he had means to do so. And the
attempt to hold him in a subordinate situation, could
not have been long successful, if it had been made.
It was as much to the credit of Mike's heart, as his
progress in learning was to that of his head, that, from
the very dawning of his better fortune, he never lost
sight of his parents, or his native village. He denied
himself every indulgence for the pleasure of contributing
to the comfort of his mother. Many were the
tokens of kindness sent to her during the year; and
they were always such as were best adapted to her
circumstances.
It was nearly two years from the time that Mike
left home, before he was able to make his parents a
visit. And then, when his old friend, Jim, the stage-driver,
drew up at the door of his father's hut, instead
of leaping out, as he thought he should, and shouting
and burst into tears. He had never realized, till that
moment, the utter desolation of the home of his youth,
the entire absence of all that constitutes the comforts
of life, in the lot of his parents.
“Halloo there, Mike, what are you about?” said
Jim, throwing down the steps of the stage with a slam
that brought Mrs. Smiley to the door, to see what was
the matter. In an instant the tears were wiped away,
and Mike was in his mother's arms. Poor woman!
she could hardly believe her eyes. Was it possible
that this brave-looking young man was her own Mike!
She put him from her a moment; and examined him
from head to foot, without saying a word, and then,
with all a mother's heart, strained him to her bosom,
saying, “Mike, you are a good boy, Mike, to remember
your poor old mother,” and then burst into tears.
Jim wiped a drop from his eye, as he mounted his box
and drove off, saying to himself, “Well, I have heard
of people crying for joy, but I never believed it before.”
It was a sad visit for poor Mike. Every blessing
that he had enjoyed during the last two years, every
comfort he possessed, was now remembered only to
aggravate the contrast between his own lot, and that
of his parents. It made him perfectly miserable to
look about him; for he felt that as yet, he had no
power to effect any substantial change in their condition.
He poured out the fulness of his heart to his
mother, who was so happy in the good fortune of her
boy, as never to have thought that any material
change in her own lot could result from it.
“But what can I do, mother?” said Mike, earnestly,
“what can I do? I must, and will do something. It
makes me perfectly miserable to have so many comforts,
while you are so poor and wretched. God helping
me, it shall not be.”
Starting suddenly up, as he said this, he was met
by Giant Zeb, who tumbled in at the door, just in
time to hear the last words.
“What's that that shall not be? and who's that
that says so?” stammered the old man, with the peculiar
tone and accent, or, rather, with the accentless
and toneless utterance of an habitual inebriate.
Mike was struck aback in a moment. His cup
was full—he could not speak. His father tumbling
stupidly into the first chair he could reach, did not
notice him, and he stood a moment as in doubt
whether to speak, or to steal away and weep alone.
But the doubt was instantly dissipated by the sharp
voice of his mother, screaming bitterly, “Why, Zeb,
so drunk that you can't see Mike?”
“Father,” said Mike, extending his hand, “don't
you know me?”
“Know you?—let me see,” replied the old man,
rousing himself up,—“what you, Mike? Why, what
a fine gentleman!—come, go down to Tim's, and
treat all round, by way of welcome home. Ha! ha!
ha! Mike—fine gentleman—plenty of money now—
let's have another drink.”
It was with much difficulty that the old man was
diverted from this thought. He was too far gone to
reason. After some time Mike succeeded in coaxing
a deep sleep, from which he did not awake till a late
hour the next morning.
Mike did not close his eyes that night. He was in
a perfect agony of spirit. The whole truth had flashed
upon his mind in an instant, when the giant frame
of his father, reduced to the feebleness of infancy,
with scarcely the instinct of a brute, left to guide its
motions, tumbled in at the door of his hut, and settled,
rather than sat down, in the broken chair by his side.
He wondered he had not seen it before. Here was
the whole secret of the poverty and wretchedness
about him.—Rum, rum; that was the fire that had
eaten out the substance and the souls of all that desolate
village, and consumed parents and children for
many generations. It was like a new revelation to
his mind. He had seen men intoxicated a thousand
times before. He had seen gentlemen, as they were
called, carried home in a state of helplessness, from
a dinner-party, and from the society of ladies, who
had furnished the temptation, and plied it with all
the seductive arts of flattery which woman has ever
at command. It was a national epidemic; and no
eye had yet been opened to measure, and no voice
raised to deprecate its fearful ravages, though myriads
of hearts had been made desolate by it, though
widows and orphans had perished by millions in its
path, and the almshouses and the graveyards of the
country were teeming with its annually increasing
multitudes of victims.
4. CHAPTER IV.
The subject had taken such hold of Mike's thoughts,
that it excluded all others. He could not sleep that
night. He did not even attempt it; but sat down
near a little old table, and leaning upon his elbows,
with his face upon his hands, he endeavoured to measure
the length, and depth, and height, and breadth of
that awful evil. For a long time he was overwhelmed
with its magnitude and omniprevalence. To move
it, seemed like re-constructing the whole framework
of society. He did not know where it was possible
to make a beginning. At length he remembered that
nothing was ever accomplished without a beginning;
and beginnings always seem very feeble and inadequate
to their end; and the world laughs at them.
But upon them all revolutions depend. “And so,”
said he, striking his hand upon the table, with some
violence, “I'll begin: but how? where?” and he
pondered long and deeply.
“Let me see,” said Mike, at length, as he broke
from his reverie, and drew out a pencil and paper
from his pocket, “how much does it cost my poor
father every year for rum? He drinks, upon the
average, and has done so, probably, for fifty years,
six glasses of rum a-day. This, at four cents a glass,
is a quarter of a dollar a-day, or a dollar and three
quarters every week, or ninety-one dollars a year.
youth; “and this, in fifty years, amounts to—what?
impossible!—FOUR THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND
FIFTY DOLLARS!!”
Mike was overwhelmed with the results of these
simple calculations. “Four thousand, five hundred
and fifty dollars! for one man to consume in making
a beast of himself. What a little fortune that would
be!” Mike went on. “The man who spends this sum
for rum, loses at least twice as much every year, in
being unfitted for labour; and as much more in the
waste and destruction of his goods and property—the
health and comfort of his family which result from
intemperance. Here then, is more than twenty thousand
dollars, which one man has sacrificed to the appetite
for strong drink. And there are—let me think
—one, two, three—twenty men, in this poor, desolate
village, each of whom has been as deeply devoted to
his cup as my father; and what does all this amount
to? Four hundred thousand dollars!! Ah! I see
through it all; enough to make any man a prince;
and this accounts for the fact, that Tim Cochrane is
the only man in the village who owns a decent house,
or ever has any thing comfortable for his family. All
this money goes into his pocket. Ah! I have it—I
have it—”
Mike could scarcely wait for the morning, so eager
was he to lay these astounding results before his father
and the neighbours. They grew upon his imagination
every moment, as the night advanced; and, at the
earliest peep of day, having commended himself and
out into the field, to refresh himself for the day's work
that was before him. He had found a place to begin
it, and he was resolved, however hopeless it might
seem, to begin at once, and do what he could.
He could not refrain from opening his budget first
to his mother; for he felt bitterly, how terribly she
had suffered from that dreadful scourge. But the
poor woman had suffered so long that it seemed to her
as necessary and unavoidable as death. She had never
dreamed of relief or comfort, but in the grave. She
stared wildly, when Mike told her of the money that
had been worse than wasted, in that poor, desolate place.
She did not believe there was so much money in the
world. “Ah! it is no use, Mike,” said she, “it's no
use; you might as well try to stop the river flowing.”
But Mike would not think so; and he waited for
his father to rouse himself from that death-like apathy
But he found him a desperately hard subject. He
would not believe the figures. He would not believe
any thing. Besides, he could as well live without
air as without rum. Mike was as persevering as
his father was obstinate. He would not leave
him till he had made him count it over his fingers,
and reckon it up for himself; and then he was obliged
to acknowledge, that his rum cost him within a
fraction of one hundred dollars a year. He did not
suppose, at first, that he ever had as much money in
any one year of his life. He was really alarmed.
“But come,” said he, “let's go down to Uncle Nat's
and see what he'll say to it.”
Mike felt ready to face the whole world, for he knew
he was right; he knew that figures, if placed right,
always tell the truth. So he accompanied his father
to Uncle Nat's. The smithy was next door to Tim
Cochrane's; and there was never a shoe set, or a nail
driven, that Tim did not reap the benefit of it. In
that smithy, before an audience of some ten or twelve
of the most ragged, squalid, filthy looking beggars
that were ever brought together in one place, out of
the almshouse, was delivered, by Mike Smiley, the first
tee-total temperance lecture that ever was attempted
in these United States. The congregation was motley,
irregular, and not so thoroughly open to conviction
as could have been desired. It was some time before
Mike could gain any thing like general attention.
But when Uncle Nat, who was considered good at
figures, had examined the whole statement carefully
marking it down with chalk on the dingy walls of his
shop, and finally, though very reluctantly, was compelled
to acknowledge that it was entirely correct, the
whole company opened their eyes wide with astonishment,
and stood gaping at each other, as if they had
lost the power of speech.
At this moment, Mike jumped upon the anvil, with
his paper in his hand, and commenced a set speech.
He explained fully the results to which his figures
led, and showed clearly, that there was not a man before
him who had not already expended in rum, and
in the losses occasioned by rum, a handsome fortune.
He pointed to their fields, which might have been, if
properly cared for, as rich and fruitful as any on the
and asked what made the degrading contrast between
them and the palaces of some of the farmers of that
beautiful valley. He pointed to their wives, who
were little better than slaves, leading a miserable,
half-starved, comfortless life, in the midst of a land
flowing with milk and honey. He pointed to their
children—but he could not sketch that picture—and
then to their own persons, and the sketch he gave of
them was such as actually made those hardened old
sots blush and feel ashamed to be seen of each other.
Mike saw his advantage. “I am but a boy,” said
he, “and why do I speak so? Because I love you.
I am one of you; bone of your bone, and flesh of your
flesh. There is my father; and there, yonder,” wiping
a tear from his eye, “my poor old mother. You are
all my friends; and I cannot bear to go back to the
comforts and blessings which are provided for me, in
my new home, and feel that I have left you in this
unhappy condition. Have I not told you the truth?
Is it not rum that makes all the difference between us?
How many comforts would not that hundred dollars
a year purchase for your wives and children! How
differently would your houses look if you should spend
it upon them! How differently would you look if
you should spend it in clothing, and in wholesome
food. How differently would this whole village
look if that four hundred thousand dollars,
which you have drunk up in rum, had been laid out
in improving your lands, repairing and ornamenting
your houses, educating your children, making your
—of yourselves! Are you men now? Look at yourselves—look
at each other—are you men? Do you
look as if you had minds?—souls?—hearts?”
Surprised at his own boldness, Mike jumped down
from his rostrum, and taking his father by the hand,
begged he would forgive him if he had spoken too
plainly. The whole audience was confounded. They
had been taken by surprise. Every man of them was
convinced; but habit long indulged gains a terrible
advantage over conscience. An impression was made,
but it needed to be followed up, blow upon blow, to
make it effective and lasting.
Giant Zeb was the first to break silence, “I tell
you what, Uncle Nat,” said he, “the boy's right.
But what can we do?”
“Do?” answered Tim Cochrane, who stepped in
just at this moment from behind the door, where he
overheard the whole; “do? come into my shop, and
I'll tell you what to do.”
The whole charm was broken in an instant. In
vain did Mike plead and beseech his father not to go.
In vain did he remind them of all his figures. Uncle
Nat led the way and they all followed. What followed
that, need not be told.
5. CHAPTER V.
Mike made a very prudent use of all the little savings
of his wages, in putting the house into more comfortable
order for his mother. When he returned to Mr.
Ralston's he took an early opportunity to call the attention
of that gentleman to the figures he had made
at home. Mr. Ralston, though a temperate man for
those days, was astonished at the result. He gave
the subject his serious attention. He assisted Mike
in getting at some further statistics upon the subject.
Mike pursued it with the ardour of a man whose heart
is in his work. The further he proceeded the more
he was astonished—overwhelmed. At length, he ventured
to put his investigations in the form of an essay,
which he sent to one of the leading journals of the
city, with the signature, “Total Abstinence.”
That article was the leader of one of the mightiest
revolutions that ever swept over the face of society.
It was copied into all the papers. It attracted
universal attention. It was talked of in all the streets,
and at every table, and at every fireside. It was fiercely
attacked on every side, and that by some of the
ablest pens in the nation. But its positions were impregnable.
Not one of them was ever refuted, or
even so much as shaken. They are to this day, the
grand colossal columns that support the central dome
of the Temple of Temperance.
This essay was followed up by others, by the same
hand. And when, by-and-by, it came out, that the
mover of all this far-reaching excitement, was an
humble lad scarcely nineteen years of age, in an inferior
station in society, the excitement became still
deeper and more general. Mike was called out—not
to fight, as would perhaps have been the case if all
this had happened elsewhere—but to explain himself
more fully.
So well had he availed himself of the advantages
to which his relation to Mr. Ralston had introduced
him, that he did not hesitate, after consultation with
that gentleman, and receiving his approbation, to propose
a public lecture. This was attended by a crowded
audience, who were astounded at the fearful picture
of the then state of our country. So many desired
to hear it who could not be accommodated, that
it was necessary to repeat it. Then it was called for
in other places. Every where it produced a marked
impression. It excited inquiry. It provoked discussion.
It led to self-examination.
Mike's hands were now full. He had made his
beginning, and a noble beginning it was. But where
was it to end? What was the remedy for the tremendous
evils that were consuming the vitals of society.
On this point the young orator allowed no compromise.
It was “total abstinence!” and he laid it down
with great emphasis, showing clearly that this was
the only ground on which the intemperate could ever
hope to become temperate or the temperate to remain
so.
The results of that grand moral movement are well
known. Look abroad over our fair land, and see millions
of acres then arid and sterile, now blooming and
fruitful; thousands and tens of thousands of hearths
then desolate, now cheerful and bright as the early
remembrance of home—countless broken widowed
hearts made whole by the returning sunshine of love
and plenty, and whole families, yea, whole communities,
then dispersed, divided, hovering around the
purlieus of the almshouse or the prison, now gathered,
united, industrious, intelligent—as if it were a nation
born in a day, or a whole tribe redeemed from
servile bondage. Men, fathers, husbands, legislators,
teachers, once raving, delirious, fierce, brutal, now
clothed and in their right minds, risen as it were from
the second death, and standing erect, beloved and honoured,
in the high places of our land.
Discouraging as was the prospect in his native village,
Mike did not despair. He was frequently there,
and so diligently and faithfully did he ply the arguments
and persuasions of a heart warm to the life in
his subject, that he succeeded, at length, in obtaining
a solemn promise from his father that he would try
the experiment for one year. Zeb Smiley was a man
of more than ordinary natural abilities, and his resolution,
once taken, was proverbially unchangeable.
By his influence, Uncle Nat was brought to the same
stand. Both of them signed their names to the same
paper, and thus each became a sentinel over the other.
The whole neighbourhood of tipplers was in consternation.
Tim Cochrane was in a rage. His craft
Uncle Nat's forge and tools, to secure the balance of
his score at the counter, and turned him out of his
shop. The effect of this was salutary. Uncle Nat
and Zeb immediately went off together at the suggestion
of Mike, and, by his aid, secured a valuable contract
for labour in clearing a new road, which furnished
full and profitable employment for the whole season.
They laboured side by side, encouraging and strengthening
each other. And daily, as the effects of their
old habits wore off, and their strength, physical and
mental, increased, they found their toils grow sweeter
and lighter. Mike continued his labours in the
village, till he obtained the names of more than two-thirds
of the old topers to his pledge. By the aid of
Mr. Ralston, he set up a temperance store, which
was kept by one of his cousins; and, before the year
was out, Tim Cochrane was obliged to move away
for want of customers to sustain his business.
Go through that village now, and what a change!
The houses are all neatly painted or white-washed, the
fences in good repair, the fields waving with plentiful
harvests, or green and blooming with the first promise
of the year. The daily gathering of bright-faced,
happy throngs of children to the school-house, and
the Sabbath meeting of a grave, decent, devout congregation
of parents in the house of God, all tell of
the marvellous, the almost miraculous change that has
come over the scene. If the story had been told fifty,
or even twenty years ago, it would have been set
down for fiction—a picture that might look well on
we have seen it with our own eyes. We know the
spot. We know many of them, and if it is worth a
voyage across the Atlantic to see Herculaneum and
Pompeii recovered, all dead and silent and soulless,
from the burial of ages, what is it not worth to the
heart of a philanthropist, to see hamlets and villages
and towns recovered from a moral burial, and not only
dwellings and fields thrown open to the reviving light
and showers of heaven, but their occupants restored
to life, and health, and beauty, and men, women, and
children, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers,
young men and maidens, rejoicing together, and blessing
God and each other in their marvellous resurrection
from the dead.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Mike Smiley now became an object of public notice.
Mr. Ralston, who was struck with his singular
ability to master whatever he undertook, encouraged
him to prosecute his studies to the utmost, freely advancing
him all the means necessary to the accomplishment
of an object so near his heart. When his
education was completed, and he was admitted to the
bar, Mr. Ralston took him into his own office, the better
to introduce him to the routine of business.
He had been but a few months in this situation,
when a singular accident occurred, which greatly assisted
profession. Mr. Ralston had been engaged in a very
important case, which had been contested for many
years, and which was now about to be brought to a
close. The parties were both eager for an immediate
issue, but Mr. Ralston's client had procured a long
delay, in order to bring up some witnesses, who had
been long absent at sea. All was now ready, and the
day of trial fixed. Mike, who, in hunting up authorities,
copying and comparing documents, and writing
out heads of arguments, had made himself acquainted
with all the principles involved, as well as with the
facts in the case, had entered it with all the energy
and ardour of his soul. The court was held in a
county-town, about thirty miles from the city. Mike,
or rather, Mr. Smiley, had gone thither by the stage.
Mr. Ralston, for the benefit and pleasure of the exercise,
went on horseback, on the same noble steed by
whose means our young hero was first made acquainted
with his patron, and now partner. The horse
was somewhat advanced in years, but had lost very
little of his early fire and beauty.
A few miles from the city it was necessary to cross
a bridge, over a narrow creek, or arm of the sea, in
the middle of which was an ill-constructed draw, for
the benefit of vessels occasionally passing up and
down the creek. The draw had been opened that
morning, and though apparently replaced, was not
properly secured. Mr. Ralston was the first to pass
over it, and, being in a profound study upon the
knotty points of his case, did not perceive that any
his full weight brought upon the draw, than it gave
way at once, and plunged both the horse and his
rider into the deep water below.
With singular presence of mind, though not without
great difficulty, Mr. Ralston kept his seat in the
saddle; and his noble steed, not unused to the water,
rising to the surface, struggled bravely to reach the
shore. Here, however, was a difficulty, almost insurmountable.
Though the creek was narrow, the bank
was absolutely perpendicular, and of a soft clayey
consistency, that allowed nothing like a foothold.
After many unsuccessful attempts, Mr. Ralston bethought
himself of an expedient to effect his own escape,
if he could not save his horse. Suddenly springing
to his feet upon the saddle, he gave a powerful
leap toward the bank, and just succeeded in gaining
it, so as to secure himself by grasping the long, tough
grass on its edge. He now took a rail from the fence
near by, and proceeded to break away the sharp angle
of the bank, in the hope that it might make a path
for his horse. In this he was so far successful, that,
in half an hour from the time he commenced, he was
enabled to remount, and ride home. Fortunately he
had emerged from the creek on the side towards the
city, and was, therefore, not obliged to go round a
great distance, in order to procure a change of clothing.
The season was October; and an exposure for so
long a time, to the cold air, in wet clothing, was not
without serious consequences. Mr. Ralston was
obliged to take his bed at once, where he was confined
danger of his life.
In the mean time, the court had assembled, the parties
were there, with their witnesses, and every thing
waited for the arrival of Mr. Ralston. As it had been
positively arranged, at the previous session, that the
case should come on that day, and that a proposal for
any further continuance from either of the parties,
should be equivalent to a non-suit, the opposing party
endeavoured to avail himself of this unexpected delay,
pretending that it was a premeditated ruse, to procure
a respite, which could not be had in any other way.
Mr. Smiley, who fortunately had the satchel, with all
the papers, finding that the day was wearing away,
and knowing that all would be lost, if something were
not done immediately, proposed to the judge to commence
the case, as Mr. Ralston would undoubtedly
be there in a short time. It was a terrible step for
poor Mike. Not only were hundreds of thousands
pending upon the result, but Mr. Ralston's standing
and fame as a lawyer were at stake. He hoped to be
able to consume time in unimportant preliminaries,
till his partner should arrive.
His partner did not come, however, and it was not
many hours before Mike knew that the whole case
had devolved all at once upon him. His opponents
would not listen to a postponement, though the hand
of Providence had seemed to make it necessary. And
the case came on. Mike was all alone; his whole
frame was agitated; but his mind was clear and bold.
He had grasped all the points in the case; he had
and with the desperate energy of one who has every
thing to lose, or every thing to gain, in a single throw,
put forth his utmost efforts to do justice to the cause.
It was a wonderful effort. The examination of the
witnesses—the statement of his case—the detection
and exposure of the weak points and sophistries of his
opponent—the laying down of the principles of law—
the argument and appeal to the jury—all of every part
would have done credit to the most experienced lawyer
of the bar. It was not only a wonderful effort,
but a successful one, and Mike had the proud satisfaction,
at the end of the week, of announcing to Mr.
Ralston, in his sick room, the favourable verdict.
“Onward, still onward,” was Mike's motto. And
onward, still onward, he marched, rising step by step,
in influence and power, till he reached the Halls of
Congress; and if he does not, at no distant day, fill
the presidential chair, it will be rather because he is
too straight forward and honest for any party, than
because he is wanting in ability to fill the station, or
ambition to aspire to it.
| The fountain and the bottle | |