JOE GATTER'S LIFE INSURANCE.

The Rich Man's Church

"Ort?" responded Hay; "who d'ye s'pose'd go to it? Nobody? Ye can rent us second-class houses, an' sell us second-hand clothin', and the cheapest cuts o' meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better 'n we do. We don't want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don't know how to use, an' we don't expect to be asked into society where our talk an' manners might make some better eddicated people laugh. But when it comes to religion—God knows nobody needs an' deserves the very best article more 'nwedo."

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—God's people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather triumphantly:

"Whatisto be done, then?"

"Reform God's people themselves," replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. "When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there'll be plenty that'll be glad to take it. Reform yer own people, Deac'n. 'Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we'll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own."

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God's people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren't we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn't evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they weren't, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reformhim? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? "Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines." The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, "Commit thy way unto the Lord."

But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full day's work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon's red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God's house until God's people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon's really human heart something terrible. If theywouldbe so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn't be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn't a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.

What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? "Ye cannot serve God and mammon." Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter's voice delivering that text. Whathadbrought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. "He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord." There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it didn't seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn't be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what itwouldcost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn't spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn't employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. "No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him"—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty's plans.

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Hah!Couldthat carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such—such—tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose—

Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient's bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) "Abraham on Mount Moriah." The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter's house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning.

"George," said the Deacon, "I've been doin' a heap of thinkin' 'bout what we talked of yesterday. I've come to say that if you like I'll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye'v a mind to, without note, security or int'rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an' yer hull fam'ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin's Bank, at interest, to go on doin' the same with when necessary. An' all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An' ef nobody else's pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord" the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—"have mercy on my soul." Then he said, aloud:

"That's all."

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon's speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said "That's all," George Hay seized the Deacon's hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:

"Deacon, God's people are reformin'!"

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.

"Deacon, that money'll do more good than all the prayin' ye ever done. 'Xcuse me—I must tell Mary," and the carpenter dashed into the house. Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He would die in the poor-house if he were so extravagant again. Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West? Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay's children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay's door, a little distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? No—the door opened—there they came. It couldn't be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—the president of the Pawkin Savings' Institution had invited the whole family into his pew! Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:

"From all that dwell below the skiesLet the Creator's praise arise";

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hays' conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the poor-house as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his Father's house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the tin-shop and the rum-shop the Deacon's conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church daily thanks the Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.

JOE GATTER'S LIFE INSURANCE.

Good? He was the model boy of Bungfield. While his idle school-mates were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey's store, it was the industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the street-corners and cast sheep's eyes at the girls, the business-like Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his heart.

For Joe's money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read "Tackey Gatter." Then the Squire wanted Joe's soul, too, and so earnest was he that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.

"'Twont do, Squire," said he; "religion's all very well in its place, but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents, because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion's out of place."

"The human soul's of more cons'kence than many eggs, Joseph," argued the Squire.

"That's just it," replied Joe; "money don't hit the value of the soul any way, and there's no use trying to mix 'em. And while we're talking, don't you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses barrel with the brown sugar?—'twill make it weigh better."

The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good a partner as a man could want.

In one of Joe's leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die, nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.

The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good Squire took his revenge.

"Joseph," said he, "you ain't through with insurance yet—you need to insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there's only one Agent that does it."

The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew the Squire was right—he had heard that same story from every minister he had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a half cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.

Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him, make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe accepted that much promptly, as he didanythingwhich could be had without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood's church had no debt, and that its contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small, so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto the day of burning.

Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe's saving act, and sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe's religious act was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in the debt of Tackey Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe's assurance that the colors were fast, but the first washday failed to confirm Joe's statement. The proprietor of the stage line between Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than proper.

Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability. And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at "runney" flour bought for "A 1 Superfine" of Tackey Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was soon enabled to choose from a full supply.

Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with economy and thrift. But the church—the church seemed an unmitigated drag. Joe attended all the church meetings—determined to get the worth of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses—he had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did not balance the amount of his contribution.

Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:

"Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to taking, partner—that 'gainst fire risks in the next world, you know. 'Twill be tough if there's any mistake—church does take a sight of money."

"Joseph," said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, "I've always been afeard they didn't look enough into your evidences when they took you into that church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he's all the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you don't know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there's mighty little hope for you, church or no church."

Joe and his venerable partner talking over insurance matters.Joe and his venerable partnertalking over insurance matters.

"Know in my heart!" cried Joe. "That's a pretty kind of security. Is that what I've been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my heart in the first place, and saved the money. What's the use of believing all these knotty points, if they don't make a sure thing for a man?"

"If your belief don't make you any better or happier, Joseph," rejoined the Squire, "you'd better look again and see if you've got a good hold of it; those that's got a clear title don't find their investment as slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the ones that's made a mistake."

Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn't begun. He believed in justification by faith; now, wasn't his faith strong—first class, he might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn't he believed everything thatallthe ministers had insisted upon as essential? And whatwasfaith, if it wasn't believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had got him into this scrape—now he must see him through.

"Squire," said he, "isn't faith the same thing as believing?"

"Well," said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, "that depends on how you believe. Here's a verse on the subject: 'Thou believest in God; thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.'"

Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn't an aristocrat, but would one fancy such companionship as the Squire referred to?

"Here," said the Squire, turning the leaves, "is another passage bearin' on the subject. 'O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore,fruitsmeet for repentance.'"

Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.

"Now, see what it says in another place," continued the Squire, "Not every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven."

"Yes," said Joe, grateful for hearing of no more horrible believers, "but whatishis will but believing on him? Don't the Bible say that they that believe shall be saved?"

"Joseph," said the Squire, "when you believed in my store, you put in your time and money there. When you believed in hoss-tradin' you devoted yourself to practicing it. When you believed life insurance was a good thing, you took out policies and paid for them, though youhavecomplained of the Patagonian dividends. Now, if you do believe in God, what have you done to prove it?"

"I've paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues," said Joe, wrathfully, "not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ."

"That wasn't for God, Joseph," said the Squire; "'twas all for you. God never'll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work. You'll find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those that's going into the kingdom of heaven—they're the people that give food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners, while those that don't do these thingsdon'tgo in, to put it mildly. He don't say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving away property don't happen till a man's belief is pretty strong."

Joe felt troubled. Could it really be that his eternal insurance was going to cost more money? Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung, President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.—the Colonel didn't believe in anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the Colonel's courage.

Joe's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor fellow who owed Joe some money. Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars, discounted ten per cent, for ninety days, and secured by a chattel mortgage on Sam's horse and wagon. But Sam had been sick during most of the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace, that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.

It was easy to see by Sam's hopeless eye and strained features that he had not come to pay—he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and wagon, his only means of support. As for Joe, he had got that hundred dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and his partner had been talking about. It was utterly unbusiness-like—he knew it—he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but, try as he might, he could not succeed. Joe thought briskly; he determined to try an experiment.

"Sam," said he, "got the money?"

"No," Sam replied; "luck's agin me—I've got to stand it, I suppose."

"Sam," said Joe, "I'll give you all the time you need, at legal interest."

Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try good deeds upon. But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes. He hurried into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe replied:

"I've got a dividend, Squire—one of those we were talking about."

"How's that?" asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.

"I'll show you," said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has just put in writing his promise to Sam.

"Joseph," said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, "it beats the widow's mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you've given Him more than you ever had in all your life until to-day."

Joe handed Sam the paper, and it was to the teamster the strongest evidence of Christianity he had ever seen in Bungfield. He had known of some hard cases turning from the saloon and joining the church, but none of these things were so wonderful as this action of Joe Gatter's. Sam told the story, in strict confidence, to each of his friends, and the good seed was thus sown in soil that it had never reached before.

It would be pleasant to relate that Joe forthwith ceased shaving notes and selling antiquated grease for butter, and that he devoted the rest of his days and money to good deeds, but it wouldn't be true. Those of our readers who have always consistently acted according to their own light and knowledge are, of course, entitled to throw stones at Joe Gatter; but most of us know to our sorrow why he didn't always act according to the good promptings he received. Our only remaining duty is to say that when, thereafter, Joe's dividends came seldom, he knew who to blame.

THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY.

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 liquorIever got hold of was more like medicine than anything nice."

"Then whatdothey 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."

The Temperance Meeting.The Temperance Meeting.

"Deacon," said Joe Digg, "I've heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to twenty year; did prayin' ever comfortyourstomach?"

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. Nobodymeansto '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 wan't 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 fleeto, 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—allof '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 meetins' 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) outmanoeuvred 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.

Back to Index Next