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causes of his temperance predilections, his direct and vigorous style, and his warm domestic attachments, as shown in the finest tribute to a mother which we have ever seen :
Lastly, we are against it for a mother's sake. To her we Ascribe the holiest of our temperance teachings, and to her history that deep and sleepless hatred of the rum traffic. A tear will come to your eye as we write of that hallowed name. She sits before us now, and we look with a holy love and a misty eye upon the locks fast silvering with gray. That idol has been shivered at your own hearth-side, but her temperance teachings and fervent prayers for her wayward boy will not, cannot be forgotten by him.
“A vision passes before us. There is a home, in New England, of happiness and comfort, and a lovely matron makes one of the links of the family circle. Again she stands at the altar, and weaves her destiny irrevocably with that of the man of her choice.
“ Years pass happily and swiftly by, and the young bride is a happy mother. Fresh blessings are added to the first, but in the mean time a shadow has fallen upon that heart and its home. A tempter has glided into the Eden, and wreathed its coils around the husband and father.
“ Other years go by, and ruin is in that home. The mother weeps and prays, and gathers more closely her children around her, as the storm bursts in its fury. Want, neglect, and abuse wring her aching heart. She fades out like the autumn leaf, and with a crushed heart sinks to the rest of death, and is
borne to a pauper's grave; and ten brothers and sisters weep over the last home of one who can no longer shield them from hunger or the cruel blow.
“An officer steps within the abode of poverty and wretchedness, and drags away all to satisfy an execution in favor of the rumseller, who has swallowed the living of that family and placed the mother in her grave. The once high-minded, but now lost and imbruted father, sells the cow and riots the proceeds out at a drunkery, and leaves the children to the charities of friends.
“ A girl of fifteen summers toils in a factory until her heart and brain ache, and she turns away to the lone group
at the desolate hearth, and sinks hungry to her fitful rest. The coldtongued bell breaks in upon short slumbers, and drives the slight and weary frame again to its bitter task. Saturday night finds her turning homeward with a feverish cheek and a heavy step. A father calls at the office of the superintendent, secures her earnings, and during the Sabbath squanders it all at the grog-shop with his boon companions !
“ The factory girl once idolized that father. But hunger, and poverty, and abuse, have taught her to hate him; and as he goes to the groggery in the morning, an involuntary prayer goes up from the child's heart that he will no more return. So accursing are the effects of rum !
"Long and weary days pass away, and yet the factory girl toils, and at night gathers with her brothers and sisters gratefully around a loaf of brown bread. There is a jug of rum on the shelf, and an imbruted father slumbering on the hearth.
6-A dark and cheerless pathway opens to the factory girl.
“The worse than orphans are driven out from the wretched home and scattered here and there as paupers, kept by the town. One little girl, a fair-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful creature of three summers, is taken by a family. Away in an entry-away, without sufficient clothing, hungry, and no eye bat God's to look kindly down upon her, she dies in the winter night-dies cold, hungry, and covered with vermin !-and the
! older sister could not even weep upon the child-pauper's grave, her of the fair hair and wild blue eye.
“ With the brand which society once cruelly affixed upon the brow of the drunkard's child, the factory girl entered into the great battle of life. Without education or friends, she was compelled to perform the most menial drudgery. The shadows that then clouded the sky of her youth have mingled with and darkened the happiness of after years. Her brothers grew up, and some of them followed in the footsteps of their father, and became drunkards. One was drowned near Albany. Another rests beneath a southern soil. A younger one, a faultless model of manly beauty, and as noble in heart as in form, was taken by pirates at sea, and killed only when he towered the last of his crew upon the slippery decks, and his arms were hewn from his body. Two others wrestle now with an appetite which dogs their footsteps with remorseless craving, and but one lives the soul of manhood and honor.
“Thus were those linked to her by the strongest ties that can bind us to each other, wrenched away, and driven up and down the world. The father lived on a drunkard, and at a
age died a drunkard by the roadside, and not a stone tells where he sleeps.
“Such are but the outlines of a childhood and youth of suffering, humiliation, and sorrow. The details are known only to the sufferer and to God. Memory rolls back upon its bitter tide the history of such scenes, the fountain of tears is opened afresh, and flows as bitterly as in the past. Childhood without sunshine! The thought is cold and dark indeed.
“ This hasty sketching would apply to unnumbered thousands of such cases. As the sands upon the shore, the blades in the meadow, or the leaves in summertime, or the stars that glitter in the blue above, are the histories of such ravages upon the hopes and happiness of youth. They will never be known until the record of the angel shall be unrolled at the judgment.
“ That factory girl — that drunkard's daughter-that childpauper, who toiled while a drunken father drank down her wages—who went hungry for bread—who was deprived of society and education, and entered upon life's stern realities with no inheritance but poverty and a father's infamy—IS OUR MOTHER!
“God! how the veins knot and burn as the tide whose every drop is bitter with the memory of her wrongs sweeps to our fingers' ends. Our soul throbs firmly in our nib, until we clutch involuntarily for a good blade, and wish the rum traffic embodied in one demon form, that we could go forth with God's blessings and smite the hell-born monster. We look upon her head, now thickly flecked with threads of silver, and wish that the temperance reform could have dawned in her day. We look upon the tear that steals down her cheek as the dark days of yore are called up, and our manhood's cheek burns with indignation. She was robbed-cruelly, basely rob
bed. She hungered for bread to eat! She was threatened with the vengeance of a rumseller if she would not toil in his household for the merest pittance ! She was shut out of society and its privileges because she had no home. She was pointed at as a drunkard's child! She toiled until her heart ached with pain, and the rumseller clutched from the hand of an imbruted father the last penny of her hard earnings ! OUR MOTHER! God of justice and truth! give us but the power to-day, and we would strangle every hydra whose breath is blasting the hope of others as it blasted hers.
“To that mother we owe the most of our hatred to the rum traffic. We imbibed it from her breast, and learned of her in childhood. A father, too, his strong form untainted by the scourge, has taught us the same lesson. The memories of his own childhood are darkened by the thoughts of a drunken father. He grappled alone with life's difficulties, and commenced his career by working to pay rumsellers' executions against his deceased father.
6. Thus from the cradle have we been educated to hate the scourge. That hatred is mingled with every pilgrim drop in our veins. It grows with our growth and strengthens with our strength. In the high noon of manhood we swear, by friends on earth and God in heaven, a lifelong warfare, if need be, against the traffic. There can be no compromise. It is a conflict of extermination, and the blows will only fail when the battle of life is ended, and our strong right arm is mingled with its mother dust. We will wear our harness to the grave, and make Hannibals of those who come after us, to fight on."