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Updated: June 21, 2025
Second only to Father Mathew in the number of converts which he has made to total abstinence was that brilliant and dramatic platform orator, John B. Gough. When he was a reckless young sot in Worcester, Massachusetts, he had owed his conversion to a touch on his shoulder by a shoemaker, named Joel Stratton, who had invited him to a Washingtonian temperance meeting.
When a retrospect is taken of the Washingtonian administration for eight years, it is a subject of the greatest astonishment that a single individual should have cankered the principles of republicanism in an enlightened people, just emerged from the gulf of despotism, and should have carried his designs against the public liberty so far, as to have put in jeopardy its very existence.
Malcom's narrative had conjured up a narrative that proved to be too true a history of his own downfall. "It was a shame for you to do what you did down at Harry Arnold's," Braddock said to the Washingtonian about half an hour afterwards, meeting him on the street. "Do what, Jim!" "Why, rake up all my past history as you did, and insult Harry in his own house into the bargain."
"I'll soon get through," replied the Washingtonian, showing no inclination to abandon his text. "You see, I did not, of course, go home with poor Bradly, and he left me with a drunken, half-angry malediction.
The early-chosen favorite of Washington, the trusted counsellor of Jefferson, the much-honored agent of Madison, the guide and chief support of Monroe, the restorer of the purity of the Washingtonian epoch to the Presidential chair, and for the last ten years the bold champion of universal liberty, stood there baited by absurd charges of perjury and treason, by insignificant beings of yesterday.
Through the great Washingtonian movement in Ohio, sixty thousand took the pledge. In Pennsylvania, twenty-nine thousand. In Kentucky, thirty thousand, and multitudes in all parts of the land. Many of these had been habitual drunkards. One hundred and fifty thousand of them, it is estimated, were permanently reclaimed.
A lady who took an interest in the writer, had said to him, "You had better go to the Washingtonian Home." "I looked at her in surprise. Send me to a reformatory?
It is not the drunkard's appetite that is transmitted, but the bias or proclivity which renders the subject of such an inherited tendency more susceptible to exciting causes, and therefore in greater danger from the use of alcoholic drinks than others. Dr. N.S. Davis, in an article in the Washingtonian, published at Chicago, presents the opposite view of the case.
That same evening, with a slow step and aching head, I walked up Madison Street towards the Washingtonian Home, with thoughts that I would be considered by the officers of the institution as a sort of a felon, or, if not that, at least something very near akin to the brute, and it was with a sinking heart that I pushed open the main door and ascended the broad, easy stairs to the office.
How odd that I, an alien, should be instructing a Washingtonian in politics and the personalities of her Senators; but I quite understand. I do hope Mrs. Madison will not object to your coming to-morrow night." "I shall come. And go now. I feel a brute to have let you talk so much, but I never have been so interested!"
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