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The subject had taken such hold of Mike's thoughts,
that it excluded all others. He could not sleep that
night. He did not even attempt it; but sat down
near a little old table, and leaning upon his elbows,
with his face upon his hands, he endeavoured to measure
the length, and depth, and height, and breadth of
that awful evil. For a long time he was overwhelmed
with its magnitude and omniprevalence. To move
it, seemed like re-constructing the whole framework
of society. He did not know where it was possible
to make a beginning. At length he remembered that
nothing was ever accomplished without a beginning;
and beginnings always seem very feeble and inadequate
to their end; and the world laughs at them.
But upon them all revolutions depend. “And so,”
said he, striking his hand upon the table, with some
violence, “I'll begin: but how? where?” and he
pondered long and deeply.

“Let me see,” said Mike, at length, as he broke
from his reverie, and drew out a pencil and paper
from his pocket, “how much does it cost my poor
father every year for rum? He drinks, upon the
average, and has done so, probably, for fifty years,
six glasses of rum a-day. This, at four cents a glass,
is a quarter of a dollar a-day, or a dollar and three
quarters every week, or ninety-one dollars a year.

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Ninety-one dollars a year!” exclaimed the astonished
youth; “and this, in fifty years, amounts to—what?
impossible!—FOUR THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND
FIFTY DOLLARS!!”

Mike was overwhelmed with the results of these
simple calculations. “Four thousand, five hundred
and fifty dollars! for one man to consume in making
a beast of himself. What a little fortune that would
be!” Mike went on. “The man who spends this sum
for rum, loses at least twice as much every year, in
being unfitted for labour; and as much more in the
waste and destruction of his goods and property—the
health and comfort of his family which result from
intemperance. Here then, is more than twenty thousand
dollars, which one man has sacrificed to the appetite
for strong drink. And there are—let me think—
one, two, three—twenty men, in this poor, desolate
village, each of whom has been as deeply devoted to
his cup as my father; and what does all this amount
to? Four hundred thousand dollars!! Ah! I see
through it all; enough to make any man a prince;
and this accounts for the fact, that Tim Cochrane is
the only man in the village who owns a decent house,
or ever has any thing comfortable for his family. All
this money goes into his pocket. Ah! I have it—I
have it—”

Mike could scarcely wait for the morning, so eager
was he to lay these astounding results before his father
and the neighbours. They grew upon his imagination
every moment, as the night advanced; and, at the
earliest peep of day, having commended himself and

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his cause to God, he left his little room, and sallied
out into the field, to refresh himself for the day's work
that was before him. He had found a place to begin
it, and he was resolved, however hopeless it might
seem, to begin at once, and do what he could.

He could not refrain from opening his budget first
to his mother; for he felt bitterly, how terribly she
had suffered from that dreadful scourge. But the
poor woman had suffered so long that it seemed to her
as necessary and unavoidable as death. She had never
dreamed of relief or comfort, but in the grave. She
stared wildly, when Mike told her of the money that
had been worse than wasted, in that poor, desolate place.
She did not believe there was so much money in the
world. “Ah! it is no use, Mike,” said she, “it's no
use; you might as well try to stop the river flowing.”

But Mike would not think so; and he waited for
his father to rouse himself from that death-like apathy
But he found him a desperately hard subject. He
would not believe the figures. He would not believe
any thing. Besides, he could as well live without
air as without rum. Mike was as persevering as
his father was obstinate. He would not leave
him till he had made him count it over his fingers,
and reckon it up for himself; and then he was obliged
to acknowledge, that his rum cost him within a
fraction of one hundred dollars a year. He did not
suppose, at first, that he ever had as much money in
any one year of his life. He was really alarmed.
“But come,” said he, “let's go down to Uncle Nat's
and see what he'll say to it.”

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Mike felt ready to face the whole world, for he knew
he was right; he knew that figures, if placed right,
always tell the truth. So he accompanied his father
to Uncle Nat's. The smithy was next door to Tim
Cochrane's; and there was never a shoe set, or a nail
driven, that Tim did not reap the benefit of it. In
that smithy, before an audience of some ten or twelve
of the most ragged, squalid, filthy looking beggars
that were ever brought together in one place, out of
the almshouse, was delivered, by Mike Smiley, the first
tee-total temperance lecture that ever was attempted
in these United States. The congregation was motley,
irregular, and not so thoroughly open to conviction
as could have been desired. It was some time before
Mike could gain any thing like general attention.
But when Uncle Nat, who was considered good at
figures, had examined the whole statement carefully
marking it down with chalk on the dingy walls of his
shop, and finally, though very reluctantly, was compelled
to acknowledge that it was entirely correct, the
whole company opened their eyes wide with astonishment,
and stood gaping at each other, as if they had
lost the power of speech.

At this moment, Mike jumped upon the anvil, with
his paper in his hand, and commenced a set speech.
He explained fully the results to which his figures
led, and showed clearly, that there was not a man before
him who had not already expended in rum, and
in the losses occasioned by rum, a handsome fortune.
He pointed to their fields, which might have been, if
properly cared for, as rich and fruitful as any on the

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banks of their noble river. He pointed to their hovels,
and asked what made the degrading contrast between
them and the palaces of some of the farmers of that
beautiful valley. He pointed to their wives, who
were little better than slaves, leading a miserable,
half-starved, comfortless life, in the midst of a land
flowing with milk and honey. He pointed to their
children—but he could not sketch that picture—and
then to their own persons, and the sketch he gave of
them was such as actually made those hardened old
sots blush and feel ashamed to be seen of each other.
Mike saw his advantage. “I am but a boy,” said
he, “and why do I speak so? Because I love you.
I am one of you; bone of your bone, and flesh of your
flesh. There is my father; and there, yonder,” wiping
a tear from his eye, “my poor old mother. You are
all my friends; and I cannot bear to go back to the
comforts and blessings which are provided for me, in
my new home, and feel that I have left you in this
unhappy condition. Have I not told you the truth?
Is it not rum that makes all the difference between us?
How many comforts would not that hundred dollars
a year purchase for your wives and children! How
differently would your houses look if you should spend
it upon them! How differently would you look if
you should spend it in clothing, and in wholesome
food. How differently would this whole village
look if that four hundred thousand dollars,
which you have drunk up in rum, had been laid out
in improving your lands, repairing and ornamenting
your houses, educating your children, making your

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wives comfortable, and making men—yes, making men—
of yourselves! Are you men now? Look at yourselves—
look at each other—are you men? Do you
look as if you had minds?—souls?—hearts?”

Surprised at his own boldness, Mike jumped down
from his rostrum, and taking his father by the hand,
begged he would forgive him if he had spoken too
plainly. The whole audience was confounded. They
had been taken by surprise. Every man of them was
convinced; but habit long indulged gains a terrible
advantage over conscience. An impression was made,
but it needed to be followed up, blow upon blow, to
make it effective and lasting.

Giant Zeb was the first to break silence, “I tell
you what, Uncle Nat,” said he, “the boy's right.
But what can we do?”

“Do?” answered Tim Cochrane, who stepped in
just at this moment from behind the door, where he
overheard the whole; “do? come into my shop, and
I'll tell you what to do.”

The whole charm was broken in an instant. In
vain did Mike plead and beseech his father not to go.
In vain did he remind them of all his figures. Uncle
Nat led the way and they all followed. What followed
that, need not be told.

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