p. 417 | Temperance

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Sep 15, 1881

Temperance.

THE TURNING-POINT.

TRAVELING last summer through Vermont, I chanced to be sitting one evening upon the piazza of a little country hotel in the company of a gray-haired man, a large and wealthy manufacturer of Massachusetts, who was a native of the town, but had left it years before, and was now returned for a little visit for the first time in nearly forty years.

Our conversation touched upon the subject of temperance. He spoke of the thousands of young men of the present day whose lives were utter failures, and who were wrecks, body and soul, through intemperance.

Deploring this fact, he also spoke of his own decision in the matter as the key to all the success of his life. Then, pointing to an old building across the way, he said:—

"When I was a young man, that old building was a thriving factory, its manufactures the chief industry of the town. There I earned my living. Those were the days before the subject of temperance was much agitated; almost everybody drank more or less. It was the custom universally for the factory boys to meet on Saturday evening in a certain place, and have a jolly night of it, drinking and making merry to close up the week. None liked this better than myself and my special crony, Jim Mathers. Jim and I usually led the crowd in stories, songs, and drinking toasts.

"But after a while, one day it suddenly dawned upon me that even as early in the week as Wednesday, I found myself longing for Saturday night. The consequences of this discovery gave me a shock, and, thank God, opened my eyes to the way I was tending. I said not a word to a soul, not even to Jim Mathers, but when Saturday came, I set out as usual for our place of meeting. Between here and the store—I could set my foot upon the very spot now—I met Jim coming toward me. We neither of us spoke. I put out my hand and he his, though it was not a habit with us to extend such form of greeting, but it seemed as if the same thought was in each mind.

" 'Come, Jim,' said I, 'let's make a resolution to quit.'

" 'Agreed,' said Jim.

"We kept our pledge—he till his death, some ten years after, and I till the present moment; and whatever success I have had in life, I owe to the resolution of that hour.

"I have come back now to the old town to look for the 'boys,' but I find none of them. There was not one of all that merry crowd that ever made an impress on the world, or won even a position of honor."

After this little story from his own life, he told another, which is interesting as showing how times have changed from that day to this.

There was another young man, who left the town about the same time as himself, with the idea of educating himself for the ministry; but he found, after a little, that it would be better to change his purpose, and so he abandoned the effort, and went to Boston for employment.

Failing at first to find anything more congenial, and unwilling to be idle, he took a position as a butler or steward in one of the first families of the city.

For a time all went well. He found a good home, and his employer a good servant.

But the day came when the gentleman gave a great party, and wine and liquors flowed like water. Before it was over, the services of the steward were more in demand as nurse or attendant upon guests unable to care for themselves, than in any other capacity. The ideas of the Vermont boy were in advance of his times; he was a staunch advocate of temperance, and he was filled with disgust that his duties forced him to mingle in such scenes. As soon as the next day dawned, he appeared quietly before his employer, with a request for a settlement of accounts, and the announcement that he must leave him.

"Why," said the stately gentleman, "have you not a good home?"

"Yes."

"Are you not satisfied with your wages?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you leave? I am satisfied with you, and would not have you leave me, and you will not readily find another such a home, I think."

"Well, then," he replied, hesitatingly, "I cannot stay in a place where I must mix with drunken men as I did last night!"

One can hardly tell whether the Boston gentleman, who opened his doors to none but the choicest society, was more astonished or amused. But it was in vain that he argued that he must set before his guests what others did, and that it was the custom of society. The youth was determined to free himself from such custom. No inducement could tempt him to remain.

The gifted son of that very household from which for such reason a servant thus went forth forty years ago, is to-day one of the most silvery-tongued orators of our land, and one of his latest and most brilliant appeals is in behalf of the temperance reform.—Companion.