FullReads

“The smell of singed garments is quite intolerable here,” observed
my new acquaintance, as the breeze enveloped us in the smoke of a
royal wardrobe. “Let us get to windward and see what they are doing
on the other side of the bonfire.”

We accordingly passed around, and were just in time to witness the
arrival of a vast procession of Washingtonians,–as the votaries of
temperance call themselves nowadays,–accompanied by thousands of
the Irish disciples of Father Mathew, with that great apostle at
their head. They brought a rich contribution to the bonfire, being
nothing less than all the hogsheads and barrels of liquor in the
world, which they rolled before them across the prairie.

“Now, my children,” cried Father Mathew, when they reached the verge
of the fire, “one shove more, and the work is done. And now let us
stand off and see Satan deal with his own liquor.”

Accordingly, having placed their wooden vessels within reach of the
flames, the procession stood off at a safe distance, and soon beheld
them burst into a blaze that reached the clouds and threatened to
set the sky itself on fire. And well it might; for here was the
whole world’s stock of spirituous liquors, which, instead of
kindling a frenzied light in the eyes of individual topers as of
yore, soared upwards with a bewildering gleam that startled all
mankind. It was the aggregate of that fierce fire which would
otherwise have scorched the hearts of millions. Meantime numberless
bottles of precious wine were flung into the blaze, which lapped up
the contents as if it loved them, and grew, like other drunkards,
the merrier and fiercer for what it quaffed. Never again will the
insatiable thirst of the fire-fiend be so pampered. Here were the
treasures of famous bon vivants,–liquors that had been tossed on
ocean, and mellowed in the sun, and hoarded long in the recesses of
the earth,–the pale, the gold, the ruddy juice of whatever
vineyards were most delicate,–the entire vintage of Tokay,–all
mingling in one stream with the vile fluids of the common pot house,
and contributing to heighten the self-same blaze. And while it rose
in a gigantic spire that seemed to wave against the arch of the
firmament and combine itself with the light of stars, the multitude
gave a shout as if the broad earth were exulting in its deliverance
from the curse of ages.

But the joy was not universal. Many deemed that human life would be
gloomier than ever when that brief illumination should sink down.
While the reformers were at work I overheard muttered expostulations
from several respectable gentlemen with red noses and wearing gouty
shoes; and a ragged worthy, whose face looked like a hearth where
the fire is burned out, now expressed his discontent more openly and
boldly.

“What is this world good for,” said the last toper, “now that we can
never be jolly any more? What is to comfort the poor man in sorrow
and perplexity? How is he to keep his heart warm against the cold
winds of this cheerless earth? And what do you propose to give him
in exchange for the solace that you take away? How are old friends
to sit together by the fireside without a cheerful glass between
them? A plague upon your reformation! It is a sad world, a cold
world, a selfish world, a low world, not worth an honest fellow’s
living in, now that good fellowship is gone forever!”

This harangue excited great mirth among the bystanders; but,
preposterous as was the sentiment, I could not help commiserating
the forlorn condition of the last toper, whose boon companions had
dwindled away from his side, leaving the poor fellow without a soul
to countenance him in sipping his liquor, nor indeed any liquor to
sip. Not that this was quite the true state of the case; for I had
observed him at a critical moment filch a bottle of fourth-proof
brandy that fell beside the bonfire and hide it in his pocket.