"An Interesting Early History of Decatur County"by Mrs. O.N. Kellogg |
| Chapter Twenty-Seven MOTTO OF THE CHAPTER OF TEMPERANCE - “LABOR, LOVE, AND TRUTH” |
| To travel is now so easy and so expeditious that it is nothing to
cross a continent or to go around the world. You have but to load up
with greenbacks and “yellow boys” and resign yourself to the care of
those powerful fellow, wind, fire and water, and directly resign
yourself to the care of those powerful fellows, wind, fire and water,
and directly farms, churches, dwellings and cities go spinning by, and
presto! You jump aboard a steamer, fall sick, and after a brief interval
away you fly again on the cars and again you take the water and the
thing is done. In former days we used to go afoot and take notes and observations by the way and faith! We'd print 'em! Something of this style, for instance: Stopped at an obscure village through which ran a beautiful little stream, clear as crystal, bounding over a pebble and shell and rock – dancing like a troop of fairies in the sunlight. I stooped to drink and it was nectar to my lips. Having assuaged my thirst, I looked about me and soon discovered something peculiar as I thought in the conduct of the inhabitants. They all carried gourds, men, women, and children, and all seemed to be going or returning from an old building by the side of the little brook that contained a great many pipes, twisted and tortuous, while sundry vats and troughs were standing around and that which they contained stank fearfully. The people looked so hollow eyed and sad, and almost sick and wretched, that I felt most afraid some contagion was in the neighborhood but, seeing a half-grown boy tugging along with a gourd full of something, I made free to ask him what it was. “Ole rye,” said he. “Then I suppose that's a still. How do they sell that stuff, by the barrel?” “Barrell I dunno what that is.” “A gallon, then?” “I dunno that nuther – the ain't no sich things here.” “Well, how do you buy your old rye, as you call it?” “Wal, raly stranger, don't you know that much – three sips a gourdful?” “All right. You go to school, I suppose. Do you like your teacher?” “School teacher – I never hearn tell a' the like.” “No? Well, you go to mill sometimes, don't you?” “No, the aint no mill.” “No mill! How do you grind your grain for bread?” “Pears like you don't know much. We grit our corn. Anythin' more you'd like to ax?” “Well, yes, if you please. Where do you go to church or meeting?” “To meetin? In the woods o' course. We never had but one, though, and then it thundered and lightninged so powerful bad it tore the trees up by the roots and scared all the critters and they broke loose and tromped 'round and spilled the whiskey and then the meetin' broke pretty suddant, kase the folks couldn't live without drink, you know, and the preachers mout as well a-talked to a prairie fire to try to stop it as to a-talked to them a'ter the liquor give out. So they sort o' quit and haint bothered us no more for a long time.” “Well then, as you have no mill, no church, no school, you have rather a dull time, don't you?” “No so very. I guess you think it was pretty lively if you had to make a crop every year and then tote the corn to the mill a-horse-back and the whiskey home by gourdfuls and darsent to drink a drap, kase ma'am, she's sick, and dad's no account, and ma'am she make us look a'ter ole Granny Lunbeg, for you see, stranger, Granny comes to the still for a gourdful every day of the world, and I allers has to foller her home and see't she don't lay down and the hogs git at her and tear her to pieces, and I tell ye, it's a job, for if I can't rouse her up and git her home, I've got to stay by her all night.” “You seem to be about the right kind of a lad, I must say. Are there any religious people about here?” “I dunno 'thout ole Grandpap. He used to be a master hand to drink, swear and fight and he could whip anything in the country and just afore the meetin' there was a feller tuck a whole trothful o' Grandpap's whiskey and you can bet there was a time about it. Grandpap swore vengeance, and the other kep out o' his way. Wal, the meeting was held and Grandpap, on the hunt 'o his man, went to meetin'. The preacher's text was “Thou Art the Man.” and he went out and told how bad everybody was by na'ter and dreckly Grandpap begun to trimble and he shuck at las so he could hardly set on the log, and there was an old (black) that come with the preacher seed him, and he tuned in to prayin' for him as loud as he could holler, and Grandpaper he hollered too, like anythin' and I tell ye I was scart, and 'peared like I couldn't leave, and so I jest stood and watched 'em. A'ter a while Grandpap set in to poundin' him on the head not known' scarcely what he was about and dreckly he hollowed for the man that tuck his whiskey. Says he, “I want to kiss him; oh I want to carry him in my arms right to Jesus. But the pore ole darkey's head was so sore he couldn't lay it on a pillar for a week. Wal, here I am a-forgettin' myself a-talkin' and look o' there stranger – there comes Granny Lunbeg, 'n I must go home with my gourdful for dad 'n be ready to see she gits home purty brisk, for if I ain't mistaken there's a powerful storm a-brewin.” Recalled to a sense of the situation by the muttering thunder's roar and lightning flashes, I betook myself to my best paces, not liking the idea of passing a night in this modern Nineveh, although in case I should be detained providentially I should prefer to be sheltered by a gourd vine as Jonah was rather than entering any of the cabins I saw around me. But fortunately, by dint of speed and perseverance, I reached an inn before the storm came on in its full force and, having made mine host aware that I required supper and a clean bed, I reclined at my ease in an old fashioned settle that was at hand and soon passed from a waking reverie induced by my late encounter into the land of dreams and, as is so often the case, my fancy took an entirely different flight. I saw a youth, toiling up the hill of fame. Patiently, and by slow but sure steps he climbed on, and on, until he had distanced all competition and his name was the rallying cry of a great party who bore him triumphantly into one after another of the high places which are only filled by those whom the people delight to honor. In the presence of the people he looked so grandly good and happy that I almost worshiped him and, in my enthusiasm, I could not bear to lose sight of him for a moment, so fascinated had I become by the halo of genius and power which surrounded him and glowed in his every look and tone and word. I bethought me that by becoming a fairy I could follow him always and be myself unseen, and as I willed it so it was. I perched upon his shoulder or nestled in his curls, and was content. Night came and where was I? Glitter, and glare, and glasses – humor, and wit and beauty, and he to whom my destiny was joined by one rash sacrilegious act, was there. I trembled but too late, and still I felt I would not if I could be free again. For I had faith in him, let what would come. And so, unknown to him, I saw him in revelry, and witnessed his remorse. But still the people shouted when he spoke. “Tis as the voice of Gods, not men.” And then, there came a time when all but me forsook their idol. No more could he entrance the multitude with thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. His hand was palsied and his tongue forgot its cunning. A lethargy like unto death would seize upon him, and his state was beastly degradation. At length, when all was lost, and others had displaced him in the great arena, and his poverty was such that he must either dig, or beg, or starve, there came a time when he took reckoning with his host, the demon drink. |
| To what, said he, has all this brought me now? To shame, disgrace, and infamy, and woe. Wretch that I am, still I would give my soul For one glass more to quench this raging thirst, That gnaws, and stings, and tears my very vitals. Leave me, ye fondling pets! I hate you! I fain would be alone. Alone! Yes, I will be alone. No living thing that breathes shall see my misery. Oh, torturing appetite! Oh, throbbing brain! Could the cold hand of some dead corpse Press my temples, that would be relief. Yes, I could talk with ghosts and find a solace. They've crossed the rubicon and so have I. This world's no more the same to me Than 'tis to them. The veil is rent, naked I stand Before my God. I would not if I could Conceal from His All-seeing eye Aught that I am or have been. And I must perish, I feel that I must perish, For 'tis write, No drunkard shall inherit eternal life. I want it not, I revel in my woe. I'm lost! Lost! Lost! Affrighted as I was, I had no power to leave, For 'tis the love of fairies, They choose their fate forever, for aye. I felt my heart must break, but had no power To even call for help. Whom do I see? A stalwart form appeareth in the distance. Sublimely grand, in strength, and power, and goodness; His every look and every act, proclaims the man. His name is LABOR. |
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