p. 81 | Temperance by John B. Gough

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Feb 16, 1882

Temperance.

By John B. Gough

Sympathy for the Drunkard.

I tell you there is not a village or a town in this country, that sustains and supports the liquor traffic, but is bound in honor to furnish places of refuge for every poor victim of the drink. My sympathies go out to these men. I do not believe in coddling them or making pets of them, but I believe in helping them to help themselves, and to remove, as fast as we can, temptation out of their way. One thing more. When the poor wrecks come to me by the score, I sometimes thank God I have no son. One Scotchman said: "I am a lost laddie." And so many of them are lost! I sometimes thank God I have no son to be lost; but if I had, I would rather take him to the vilest and dirtiest grog-shop that could be found, and keep him there for half an hour, than to take him into the most respectable social drinking circle in Saratoga. If I took my boy fresh from his pure home, fresh from the touch of his mother's knee, fresh from Sabbath-school exercises, into such a den as that, I would frighten him. He hears strange sounds; he does not like the odor of the place; he puts his hands to his ears. "Take me out of this, papa. What are these men doing? I don't like it. Oh! take me away." But in the social circle, where the mother smilingly offers the wine to her guests, and the minister, under whose preaching the boy has sat, gives assent to it by a smile, there he will take his first glass. So, if we wish to prevent this evil, we must assail the drinking customs of society that are made fashionable and respectable. The moderate drinker tells us we are very hard on him. I do not pretend to say that the moderate drinker intends to do this mischief. A lady said to me: "My son, eighteen years of age, came from his chamber one New Year's morning, and said: 'Happy New Year, mamma.' While seated at his breakfast, he said: 'Now, mamma, I am going out for the first time in my life to make New Year's calls, and I mean to make a business of it; good-morning;'" and he kissed her on both cheeks. She said she stood in the bay window, and watched him till he turned the corner, and then drew a long sigh of satisfaction. "My boy, sweet, pure, clean, lovely? I was proud of him. I thought of him all day." At night came a ring of the bell—a strange sort of ring—and instead of permitting the servant to go, she went herself, and there she beheld two young men holding up her drunken son. She said: "Bring him in." They laid him on the carpet. "And then," she said, "I sat down and lifted his head in my lap. I tried to comb his hair; it was all matted and damp; his lips, that were so pure and sweet, were cracked and dry, and his breath, that was like the odor of newly-gathered violets, was a horrible stench. My boy! The eyes half-closed, just showing the white; the horrible breath pouring forth in pestiferous effluvia. My boy! His face seemed to be so changed. It was so smooth when he went out, but now it looks coarse. Mr. Gough," she said, "if that had been the work of my boy's enemy it would have been a comfort to look upon him and feel that it was the work of my boy's bitterest foe; but if that is the work of my boy's friend, God have mercy on me! for I have but very little hope for the future." And she said that was not the last time, by many, that he came home to her drunk. Who gave him his first glass?—John B. Gough, in Watch Tower.