ense, "go eat," and God stood for prohibition,
"thou shalt not." That is the question today and I am quite sure God
and the devil stand now as then, and while the Adams are divided, the
Eves are nearly all on one side.

Another said: "After all the work done for temperance the people drink
as much or more than ever." My answer is: how much more would they
drink if we had not done what has been done?

Yonder on the ocean a vessel springs a leak and soon the water stands
thirty inches deep in the hold. The captain says: "To the pumps!" and
the sailors leap to their places. At the end of one hour the captain
measures and says: "Thirty inches; you are holding it down." Hour
after hour the pumping goes on, with changing hands at the pumps, and
hour after hour the captain says: "You are doing well; she can't go
down at thirty inches. Hold it there and we'll make the harbor."
Twenty hours and the captain shouts: "Thirty inches; and land is in
sight. Pump on, my boys, you'll save the ship." Suppose one of our
croakers who says, "Prohibition won't prohibit," had been on board. He
would have said: "Don't you see you are doing no good; there's just as
much water as when you began." What would have become of the ship?

At the close of the Civil War intemperance was pouring in upon the
Ship of State. Men returned from war enthralled in chains worse than
African slavery, for rum slavery means ruin to body and soul. Men,
women and children ran to the pumps, and thank God, state after state
is going dry. Soon we'll see the land of promise, and the Ship of
State will be saved from a leak as dangerous as ever sprung in a
vessel, and from as cruel a crew of buccaneers as ever scuttled a
ship.

When I began the work as a "Good Templar" forty years ago, Kentucky
was soaked in rum. Bourbon county, where I was reared, had
twenty-three distilleries, and a dead wall lifted itself against my
hopes of ever seeing the sky clear of distillery smoke above old
Bourbon county, a name on more barrels and bottles, on more bar-room
windows, and on the memories of more drunkards in ruin than any other
county in the world. Yet I have lived to see the last distillery fire
go out, and Bourbon county dry. While I had faith in the ultimate
triumph of the Cause I never dreamt it would come to Bourbon county in
my lifetime.

When I began saloons were at almost every crossroads village, and the
bottle on sideboards was the rule in thousands of leading homes