The Barton Experiment. Habberton John

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