Were I called upon, Mr. Chairman, to define intemperance by its effects, I would say: “It is that which covers the fields of the husbandman with tares and thorns, and strews the ocean with wrecks. It is that which renders the clerk unfaithful to his employer, the public man to his constituents, the magistrate to his oath of office, the parent to his family, and all who are trusted to every trust. It is that which stirs to mutiny every corrupt passion, weakens every motive to virtue, adds strength to vicious allurements, and pushes the reluctant will over the verge of every damnable and desperate enterprise. So well is this understood by the doers of evil that it is in the armies of evil the regular weapon whose value is unquestioned after the experience of ages. Is a seaman to be enticed to desert his ship or a soldier his colors? Ply him with liquor. Is a ruffian steeped in crime to be urged to some deed of horror from which even his hardened nature revolts? Ply him with liquor. Is a young man with his curiosity awake, his passions pure and jubilant, and his heart throbbing with warm impulses of budding life to be put upon that same descending grade opening to a like abyss of utter loathsomeness, his fair face to be rendered shameless, and his lips to reek of the pit? Then go, thou familiar spirit, whose abode is in the sparkling cup, assume the form of beauty and youth, show him not at once thy craven features, but while his arm is linked in thine, accustom him by slow gradations to the festive and genial cup.”
The ways and methods of doing good are not intuitive. They are, as in the arts and crafts, the result of effort and experience. Good men by long practice into which they have flung their very hearts have learned more and more effective methods of grappling with intemperance. At first they began with cure; now they try prevention, not forgetting the other. Once they went alongside the old hulk stranded on the beach, her masts gone by the board, her rigging white and weather-worn hanging over her bulwarks, ochre hanging from her opening seams, and refitting and relaunching her, they obtained from the stranded hulk a few years of inferior service. Now they buoy the channel and light the beacon, and thus prevent the shipwreck. Noble men went to the inebriate crawling in the gutter; with kindly sympathy they raised him up and restored him to usefulness and power. But who, save the inebriate himself, can tell the bitterness of that struggle between the man, the husband, the father, struggling to rise, and the demon that strives to drag him back? How true it is that that accursed longing never dies! How true it is that we need never learn to drink but once! What temperance reformer is there who has not shed bitter tears over the final wreck of those whom he thought he had saved?
Thus noble efforts were made, multitudes partially, and many really reformed, but all the time behind there was a thronging army of young men treading the same paths. But, taught by experience, men have now begun to grapple with this evil on its strongest ground; that is, in its social aspect, that which is most alluring to the romantic and the young.
I may safely say that from the beginning of social life the great mass of the literature, genius, and wealth of the world has been, and is now, on the side of intemperance. The greatest poets that ever lived have sung in strains of beauty that captivated the young heart the praises of the ruby wine. It has for ages been interwoven with all festivals,—the meeting and parting of social life. It is this more than the love of liquor that attracts. In this view wine becomes the exponent of all that is genial and warm; temperance of all that is cold, forbidding, and repulsive. It is for just this purpose and to meet the enemy at just this point that associations like this have been formed. They seek to show that the flowing bowl is not of necessity the quickener of the intellect, or of all ardent and generous feeling; that it is not the only elixir for the heavy heart. They would show that there are other pleasures as exhilarating as those of the wine cup—pleasures that leave no sting behind. They would show that men can be earnest scholars, sympathetic friends, jovial companions, and at the same time taste not, touch not, and handle not the wine cup, or be under any obligations to alcohol for their enjoyment. May this association in the heart of this great city accomplish its purpose, and be the young man’s friend.
RELIGIOUS WORSHIP EARLY IN THE CENTURY
[Delivered at the Municipal Celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Portland, Maine, Sunday, July 4, 1886.]
Mr. Chairman: Having been requested to offer some remarks in respect to the conduct of religious worship early in the century, I would say that early impressions are the most enduring, and religious impressions more so than all others, resulting from the fact that they are not so much impressions as the development of innate tendencies kept alive and nourished by the intercourse that all men, to a greater or less extent, hold with their Creator. There are none that so resent interference or are with such difficulty eradicated. Though by no means one of the good boys who die young, and with little inclination to acquire knowledge by books or by dint of study, there were two subjects that always possessed for me a peculiar interest and attraction— one the employment by which men obtained their bread, and the other the discussion of religious doctrines, though utterly averse to any personal application of them. I recollect that when I had twenty-five cents given me by my father to go to Sukey Baker’s tavern to see an elephant, a rare sight in those days, I sat as demure as a mouse in my father’s study the greater part of an afternoon listening to a discussion between him and a Hopkinsonian minister upon disinterested benevolence, which was brought at last to an abrupt termination in consequence of the use by the Hopkinsonian of the following illustration: “Suppose, Brother Kellogg, I was walking over a bridge with two ladies, to one of whom I was tenderly attached and engaged to be married, the other an indifferent person. My particular friend, I am aware, is a person of ordinary ability, but the other lady is possessed of great mental powers thoroughly disciplined, and both of them are in a state of grace. The bridge breaks through and we fall into the stream. I can save but one of them, and in that case it would be my duty, even if I had to leave my personal friend to perish, to save the more gifted person, because she is able and qualified to do more for the glory of God.” My father ended the discussion by rising and declaring that a man who could cherish, much more propagate, such abominable sentiments was not fit to preach the Gospel nor even to live in a Christian society. The discussion and ways of ministers, their preaching and modes of conducting worship at that period are as vivid in my recollection to-day as then, and I purpose to turn this to account in complying with your request.
Religious worship at that time, though modified, still retained much of the ancient spirit and something of the form. My father and the ministers of his age formed the connecting link between the old and the new. Many of the old ministers, who were settled for life, and wore old ministerial wigs, cocked hats, small clothes, and bands, were still preaching, and frequently exchanged with my father,—Father Lancaster of Scarborough, Mr. Tilton and Mr. Eaton of Harpswell. Father Lancaster would sometimes fall asleep in the pulpit while the choir were singing the hymn before the sermon, for he was well-stricken with years. Ministers of a later date wore a queue and powdered their hair. My father in younger life wore his hair long, and it curled down his back and was powdered. He also retained the bands for a neck dress. I can just recollect when he exchanged breeches for loose pants. The old people, who were opposed to the innovation, called them sailor trousers, and said they did not become a servant of God, were got up to conceal spindle shanks, and the deacons of the First Parish and some others retained them. The sermons and prayers were somewhat curtailed, even by the old ministers, but were still of sufficient length. The hour-glass was no longer seen on the pulpit, but was still used in families, schools, and by the toll-keeper at Vaughan’s bridge. The deacons in the First Parish still sat before the pulpit, but the practice of deaconing the hymns was given up. Intentions of marriage were no longer cried in the church with the addition that if any person could show cause why they should not be carried into effect, to make it known, or else forever to hold their peace; but publishments were posted in the porch of the meeting-house for all to read. Much importance was attached to the singing, and it was always performed by a full choir, as loud noise was by our forefathers deemed essential in public worship. At first there was no instrument except the bass viol. The chorister, conscious of the dignity of his office, would rise with a solemn air, run up the scale, beating time with his hand, and lift the tune. My father, who had been drum-major in the Continental army, and was extremely fond of instrumental music, introduced the cornet and clarinet, in addition to the bass viol, into the Second Parish choir. He likewise persuaded Mr. Edward Howe, of Groton, Massachusetts, to come and set up business in Portland on account of his musical talent, and assisted him all he could, and Mr. Howe led the choir of the Second Parish for years, keeping up with the progress of the times. Difficulties with church choirs were as prevalent then as now. At one time the first hymn was read, but there was no response from the choir. My father, who was a good singer, immediately read the hymn, “Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God,” and led off himself, and the congregation joined in. When the next hymn was read, the choir concluded to sing.