Part 26 (2/2)

But, notwithstanding her theory, she proceeded to instruct him as to what he should say on the occasion.

”Say to 'em, John, that he who comes to ye with a temperance pledge insults yer character. It is like askin' ye to promise not to become a jacka.s.s; and what would ye think of a man who would ask ye to sign a paper like that? or to sign the Ten Commandments? or to promise that ye'd never lie any _more_? It's one's duty to maintain one's dignity of character, and, John, I want ye to open yer mouth in defense of the rights of liberty on the occasion; and do yer duty, and bring down the Philistine with a pebble-stun, and 'twill be a glorious night for Pigeon Creek.”

The views of Aunt Olive Eastman on preaching without preparation and on temperance were common at this time in Indiana and Illinois. By not understanding a special direction of our Lord to his disciples as to what they should do in times of persecution, many of the pioneer exhorters used to speak from the text on which their eyes first rested on opening the Bible. They seemed to think that this mental field needed no planting or culture--no training like Paul's in the desert of Arabia, and that the pulpit stood outside of the universal law. The moral education of the pledge of Father Matthew was just beginning to excite attention. Strange as it may seem, the thoughts and plans of the Irish apostle of temperance and founder of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul seemed to have come to Abraham Lincoln in his early days much as original inspiration. His first public speech was on this subject. It was made in Springfield, Illinois, in 1842, and advocated the plan which Father Matthew was then originating in Ireland, the education of the public conscience by the moral force of the temperance pledge.

It was a lengthening autumn evening when the debate took place in the school-house in the timber. The full moon rose like a disk of gold as the sun sank in clouds of crimson fire, and the light of the day became a mellowed splendor during half of the night. The corn-fields in the clearings rose like armies, bearing food on every hand. Flocks of birds darkened the sunset air, and little animals of the woods ran to and fro amid the crisp and fallen leaves. The air was vital with the coolness that brings the frost and causes the trees to unclasp their countless sh.e.l.ls, barks, and burrs, and let the ripe nuts fall.

The school-room filled with earnest faces early in the evening. The people came over from Gentryville, among them Mr. Gentry himself and Mr.

Jones the store-keeper. Women brought tallow dips for lights, and curious candlesticks and snuffers.

Aunt Indiana and Josiah Crawford came together, an imposing-looking couple, who brought with them the air of special sense and wisdom. Aunt Indiana wore a bonnet of enormous proportions, which distinguished her from the other women, who wore hoods. She brought in her hand a bra.s.s candlestick, which the children somehow a.s.sociated with the ancient Scripture figures, and which looked as though it might have belonged to the temples of old. She was tall and stately, and the low room was too short for her soaring bonnet, but she bent her head, and sat down near Josiah Crawford, and set the candle in the s.h.i.+ning candlestick, and cast a glance of conscious superiority over the motley company.

The moderator rapped for order and stated the question for debate, and made some inspiring remarks about ”parliamentary” rules. John Short opened the debate with a plea for independence of character, and self-respect and personal liberty.

”What would you think,” he asked, ”of a man who would come to you _in the night_ and ask you to sign a paper not to lie any more? What? You would think that he thought you had been lying. Would you sign that paper? No! You would call out the dogs of retribution, and take down your father's sword, and you would uplift your foot into the indignant air, and protect your family name and honor. Who would be called a liar, in a cowardly way like that? And who would be called a drunkard, by being asked to sign the paper of a tee-totaler? Who?”

Here John Short paused. He presently said:

”Hoo?”--which sounded in the breathless silence like the inquiries of an owl. But his ideas had all taken wings again and left him, as on the occasion when he attempted to preach without notes or preparation.

Aunt Indiana looked distressed. She leaned over toward Josiah Crawford, and said:

”Say somethin'.”

But Josiah hesitated. Then, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of all, Aunt Indiana rose to the ceiling, bent her generously bonneted head, stretched forth her arm, and said:

”He is quite right--quite right, Josiah. Is he not, Josiah?”

”Quite right,” said Josiah.

”People do not talk about what is continuous--what goes right along. Am I not right, Josiah?”

”Quite right! quite right!”

”If a man tells me he is honest, he is not honest. If he tells me that he is pure, he isn't pure. If he were honest or pure he says nothing about it. Am I not right, Josiah?”

”Quite right! quite right!”

”n.o.body tells about his stomach unless it is out of order; and no one puts cotton into keyholes unless he himself is peeking through keyholes.

Am I not right, Josiah?”

”Quite right! quite right!”

”And no one asks ye to sign a temperance pledge unless he's been a drunkard himself, or thinks ye are one, or likely to be. Ain't I right, Josiah?”

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