The fire which destroyed the Mississippi Valley Woolen Mills did such damage in the ranks of the temperance reformers that for a few months Crupp, Tomple, and several others had frequent cause to feel lonesome, while poor Father Baguss fell back upon the church for that comfort which, just after his first effort with Tappelmine, and before the fire, he had frequently found in the society of his self-approving brother stockholders. The mill was rebuilt, only a few of the owners of stock refusing to be assessed for their proportion of the loss; the mill made a very prosperous winter, and interested persons were not averse to talking about it; but after Deacon Jones’ speech was noised abroad, the mill was no longer a semi-holy topic of conversation, which was allowable even on the church steps on Sundays. Some of the men whose eyes had been opened toward themselves, on the occasion of the fire, were honest enough to confess to themselves, and to bring forth fruits meet for repentance; but the majority took refuge either in open or secret sophistry, with the comforting impression that they blinded others as effectually as they did themselves. The mass of the people, however—those who neither subscribed to temperance funds, nor mill stock, nor anything else, still looked on, and were plethoric of encouragement and criticism. When appealed to for help, their logic was simply bewildering, and almost as depraved as the same defensive and offensive weapon is in politics. Tomple was the man to do such work, said some, for he was the rich man of the village, and rich men are only God’s stewards; others suggested Captain Crayme, who had money, and who should be willing to spend considerable of it as a thank-offering for his own providential deliverance from the thraldom of drink. The irreligious thought that all such work should be done by the church, if churches were good for anything but to shout in; while the religious felt that the irreligious, among whom could be found nearly every drinker in the village, should expend whatever money was needed for the physical reformation of their kind. Where none of these excuses seemed available, or wherever two or three conservatives of differing views met together, there was always Crupp to fall back upon; each man could grasp his own pocket-book with tender tenacity, and declare to a sympathetic audience that the man who had coined his money out of widows’ tears and orphans’ groans should by rights take care of all the drunkards in the county, even until he was so reduced in means as to be dependent upon public charity for his own support.

Thus matters stood when a year had elapsed since the memorable temperance meeting, and Parson Wedgewell suggested that an anniversary service would be only an ordinary and decent testimonial of respect to Providence for his special mercies during the year. To the parson’s surprise, Crupp who—though he had during the winter surprised every one by joining Parson Wedgewell’s church, in spite of a very severe course of questioning by the Examining Committee—was still a man of action and a contemner of mere words—Crupp not only failed to oppose such a meeting, but volunteered himself to write for Major Ben Bailey, the gifted orator who had addressed the earlier meeting, and to pay the orator’s expenses. Such offers were rarely made, even by the Barton reformers, so by unanimous consent Crupp wrote to the great lecturer, it being admitted by Tomple, Wedgewell, Baguss, and Jones, that Crupp’s idea of informing the Major what had been done during the year was a good one, and that it would enable the orator to modify his address with special reference to existing circumstances. But Squire Tomple and the parson were considerably astonished to see Crupp dash into the Squire’s store one day, exhibiting an unusual degree of excitement, as he unfolded a letter and remarked,

“He won’t come! Just listen to what he says!” And while the two other reformers stood as if they saw the sky falling and did not despair of catching it in their eyes and mouths, Crupp read:

“In replying to Mr. Crupp’s favor of the —th, Major Bailey can only say, that while he should be glad to again meet the people among whom so great an amount of good has been accomplished within the year, he cannot see that he can render any service. Major Bailey’s efforts are confined solely to the awakening of an interest in temperance; the condition of affairs which Mr. Crupp reports as existing in Barton, however, indicates a degree of interest which cannot be heightened by any effort which the writer could put forth. What seems desirable at Barton is such an informing of the general populace upon what has been accomplished, upon the manner in which the work has been done, and the comparatively small number of persons who have actively participated in it, as shall convince the inhabitants that they did not fulfill their whole duty toward temperance when a year ago they applauded the utterances of the writer of these lines. Briefly, Major Bailey feels that if he attended, he could contribute only such efforts as, under the circumstances, would be entirely out of place.”

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Parson Wedgewell, with the eye of a man who dreams.

“Threw away a job!” said Tomple, like the thrifty business man that he was.

But the meeting was planned and widely advertised, and when, on the evening appointed, the attendants looked over the room, they found occasion for considerable attentive reflection.

Except that Major Ben Bailey, the gifted orator, was not present, the meeting presented the same attractions which had drawn such a crowd to its predecessor. The Barton Brass Band was there, and with some new airs learned during the year; the Crystal Spring Glee Club was there; there were the pastors of the four churches in Barton, and Squire Tomple was in the chair as before. Besides, there were additional attractions: Crupp, a year before, the man who was lending to liquor selling an air of respectability, was upon the platform to the left and rear of Squire Tomple; old Bunley, who a year before had been responsible only as a container of alcohol, but now a respectable citizen and book-keeper to Squire Tomple, occupied the secretary’s chair; Tom Adams acted as usher in one of the side-aisles, and dragged all the heavy drinkers up to front seats; Harry Wainright was there, with a wife whose veil was not thick enough to hide her happiness; Fred Macdonald, who had spent the evening of the other meeting in the Barton House bar-room, was there; so was Tappelmine, appearing as ill at ease as a porker in a strange field, but still there; while in a side seat, close to the wall, sitting as much in the shadow of his wife as possible, so as to guard his professional reputation, was Sam Crayme, captain of the steamer Excellence. A number of “the boys” were there also, and yet the church was not only not crowded, but not even full. During the year temperance had been guided from the hearts to the pockets of a great many, and this radical treatment had been fatal to many an enthusiastic soul that had theretofore been blameless in its own eyes. Those who attended heard some music, however, which was not deficient in point of quality; they heard a short but live address from old Parson Fish on the moral beauty of a temperate life, and an earnest prayer from that one of the Barton pastors who had during the year done nothing which justified the mention of his name in this history, and then the audience saw Mr. Crupp advance to the front of the platform and unfold a large sheet of paper, which he crumpled in one hand as he spoke as follows:

“Ladies and gentlemen: having been requested, by the chairman of the last meeting, to collect some statistics of the work accomplished in Barton, during the past year, in the cause of temperance, I invite your attention to the following figures:

“Population of township last year, three thousand two hundred and sixty-five. Signatures to pledge, at last meeting, six hundred and twenty-seven [applause]; signatures of persons who were in the habit of drinking at time of signing, two hundred and thirty-one; number of persons who have broken the pledge since signing, one hundred and sixty [sighs and groans]; number of persons who have kept their pledges, seventy-one [applause]; number reclaimed by personal effort since meeting, forty-six [applause]; amount of money subscribed and applied strictly for the good of the cause, and without hope of pecuniary gain [a faint hiss or two], five thousand one hundred and ninety dollars and thirty-eight cents [tremendous applause]; amount which has been returned by the beneficiaries without solicitation, twenty-seven dollars [laughter, hisses, and groans]. Of the amount subscribed, six-sevenths came from five persons, who own less than one-fiftieth part of the taxable property of the township.”

The quiet which prevailed, as Mr. Crupp spoke these last words and took his seat, was, if considered only as quiet, simply faultless; but its duration was greater and more annoying than things purely faultless usually are, and there was a general sensation of relief when Squire Tomple, who during the year had not made any public display of his charities, and who was popularly supposed to care as much for a dollar as any one, slowly got upon his feet.

“My friends,” said the Squire, “I’m more than ever convinced that temperance is a good thing [hearty applause], and the reason I feel so is, that during the year I’ve put considerable money into it; and where the treasure is there shall the heart be also [dead silence]. I’ve made up my mind, that hurrahing and singing for temperance will make a hypocrite out of a saint, if he don’t use money and effort at the same time. I like a good song and a good time as much as anybody, but I can’t learn of a single drinking man that they have reformed. At our last meeting there was some good work started, by the use of songs and speeches, and you have learned, from the report just presented, how much lasting good they did. Money and work have done the business, my friends; talk has helped, but alone by itself it’s done precious little. This lesson has cost me a great deal; and as a business man, who believes that every earthly interest is in some way a business interest, I advise you to learn the same lesson for yourselves before it is too late.”

Such a pail of cold water had never before been thrown upon Barton hearts aglow with confidence, it struck the leader of the band so forcibly that he rattled off into “Yankee Doodle,” to aid the meeting in recovering its spirits; even after listening to this inspiriting air, however, it was with a wistfulness almost desperate that the audience scanned the countenance of Parson Wedgewell as he stepped to the front of the platform.

“Beloved friends,” said the parson, “the result of the past year’s work in this portion of the Lord’s vineyard has indeed been richly blessed, and I shall ever count it as one of the precious privileges of my life that I have been permitted to take part in it. [‘Hurrah for the parson!’ shouted a man, who had but a moment before worn a most lugubrious countenance.] I rejoice, not only that I have seen precious sheaves brought to our Lord’s granary, but also because I have beheld going into the field those who have heretofore stood idly in the market-place, and because I have beheld the reapers themselves receiving the reward of their labors. They have received souls for their hire, dear friends, and I feel constrained to admit that if each of those who came in at the eleventh hour received as much as us, who have apparently borne the burden and heat of the day, they were fully entitled to it by reason of the greater intelligence and industry which they have displayed. For many years, my dear friends, I have been among you as one sent by the Physician of souls; but it is only within the past year that I have begun to comprehend that the soul may be treated—very often should be treated—through the body; and that, though the fervent effectual prayer of the righteous man availeth much, the exercise of that which was made in the likeness and image of God is not to be idle. The mammon of unrighteousness has been made the salvation of many, my dear friends; and it has, I verily believe, guided toward heavenly habitations those who have applied it to the necessities of others. But, dear brethren, the harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few; pray ye, therefore, the Lord of the harvest that he will send forth laborers unto his harvest; but take heed that ye follow the example of him, who, as he commanded us thus to petition the throne of grace, ceased not to labor in the harvest field himself; who fed when he preached, and healed when he exhorted.”

Harry Wainright pounded on the floor with his cane, hearing which, Tom Adams brought his enormous hands together with great emphasis, and his example was dutifully followed by the whole of his own family, which filled two short side seats. Father Baguss shouted “Glory to God!” and Deacon Jones ejaculated “That’s so!” but the hearers seemed disposed to be critical, although the parson’s address had been couched in language almost exclusively Scriptural. While they were engaged in contemplation, however, old Bunley dropped a mellow cough and stepped to the front.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “it’s the style in this town, and everywhere else, I suppose, to kick a man when he’s down, and then to trample on him. I know one man that’s been there, and knows all about it. ’Twas his own fault he got there, and there were plenty who told him he ought to get up; but how kicking and trampling were to help him do it he could never see, and he made up his mind, that folks did as they did because it suited them, not because it was going to do him any good. So he’s been hating the whole townful for years, and doing all the harm he could, not because he liked doing harm, but because he never got a chance to do anything else. Suddenly, a couple of gentlemen—I won’t mention names—came along, and gave the poor fellow a hand, and gave him the first chance he’s had in years to believe in human nature at all. And, all this time, everybody else around him was acting in the way that this same poor fellow would have acted himself, if he had wanted to play devil. The same couple of gentlemen went for a good many other people, and acted in a way that you read about in novels and the Bible (but mighty seldom see in town); and those fellows believe in these two gentlemen, now, but they hate all the rest of you like poison. I don’t suppose you like it, but truth is truth; you might as well know what it is.”

Several people got up and went out, carrying very red faces with them; but Fred Macdonald stood up and clapped his hands, and the Adams family and Wainright helped him, while the broad boots of Father Baguss raised a cloud of dust, which formed quite an aureole about Baguss himself as he got up and remarked:

“Brethren and sisters: Squire Tomple hit the nail exactly on the head when he said that hollerin’ an’ singin’ makes a hypocrite of a man if he don’t open his pocket-book. If you don’t believe it, remember me. If anybody ever liked his own more’n I did, he’s a curiosity. I don’t hate money a bit now, an’ I’m not goin’ to try to; but the hardest case I ever got acquainted with was me, Zedekiah Baguss, when I couldn’t dodge it any longer that I ought to spend money for a feller-critter. I won’t name no names, brethren an’ sisters; but if you’re huntin’ for any such game, don’t go to lookin’ up drunkards until you smell around near home fust.”

“Reputation be blowed higher than a kite!” exclaimed Captain Crayme, springing to his feet; “but I’ve got to say just a word here. Gentlemen, I’m off my whiskey, and I’m going to stay off; but I might be drinking yet, and have kept on forever, for all that any of you that’s so pious and temperate ever cared. But one man thought enough of me to come and talk to me—talk like a man, and not preach a sermon; more than that, he not only talked—which the biggest idiot here might have done just as well—but he stuck by me, and he brought me through. Any of you might have done it, but none of you cared enough for me, and yet I’m a business man, and I’ve got some property. How any poor fellow down in the mud is ever to get up again, in such a place, I don’t see; and yet Barton’s as good a town as I ever touch at.”

The interest of the meeting was departing, so were the attendants; but the Reverend Timotheus Brown limped forward and exclaimed:

“Hear, then, the conclusion of the whole matter: ‘Not every one that sayeth Lord, Lord, shall inherit the kingdom of heaven, but him that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.’ There has been a blessed change wrought in this town within a year, and work has done it all. He who taught us to say ‘Our Father,’ made of every man his brother’s keeper, and no amount of talk can undo what He did. A few men in our midst have recognized their duty and have done it, or are doing it; most of them, among them him who addresses you, have learned that the beginning is the hardest part of the work, and that the laborer receives his hire, though never in the way in which he expects it. Much remains to be done, not only in raising the fallen, but in reforming the upright; and, to get a full and fair view of the latter, there is no way so successful as to go to work for others.”

Squire Tomple announced that the meeting was still open for remarks; but, no one else availing themselves of the privilege offered, the evening closed with a spirited medley from the brass band. Not every one was silent and dismal, however; as the church emptied, Tomple, Bunley, Crupp, Wedgewell, Brown, and the other pastors came down from the platform, and were met at the foot of the steps by Baguss and Deacon Jones, and there was a general hand-shaking. Tom Adams stood afar off, looking curiously and wistfully at the party, noticing which, Parson Wedgewell danced excitedly up to him, and dragged him into the circle; there Tom received a greeting which somehow educated him, in two or three minutes, to a point far beyond any that his head or heart had previously reached. Then Fred Macdonald, who had intended to avoid any action which might seem to make him one of the “old fellows” of the village, suddenly lost his head in some manner which he could not explain, and hurried off, caught Sam Crayme’s arm, and destroyed such reputation as remained to the captain along the river, by bringing the enterprising navigator into such a circle as he had never entered before, but in which he soon found himself as much at home as if he had been born there. Others, too—not many in number, to be sure—but representing most of the soul Of the village, straggled timidly up to the group, and were informally admitted to what was not conventionally a love-feast, but approached nearer to one than any formal gathering could have done.

Barton has never since known a monster temperance meeting; but the few righteous men who dwell therein have proved to their own satisfaction, and that of certain one-time wretches, that, in a successful temperance movement, the reform must begin among those who never drink.