A Striking Example by R. J. W.

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Dec 14, 1882

"A Striking Example."

By R. J. W.

UNDER the above head, a paragraph is going the rounds, which reads thus:—

"A Detroit saloon-keeper advertises that he has paid $300 for a year's license to sell liquors, but that he means to voluntarily restrict his business within certain bounds. 'To the wife with a drunken husband,' he says in the advertisement, 'or a friend who is dissipated, I say emphatically, give me notice of such cases, and all such shall be excluded from my place. Let fathers, mothers, sisters, do likewise, and their request shall be regarded. I pay a heavy tax for the privilege of selling whisky and other liquors, and I want it distinctly understood that I have no desire to sell to drunkards, or to minors, or to the poor or destitute. I much prefer that they save their money, and put it where it will do the most good to their families.'"

The man who thus poses for the applause of an admiring world, is receiving more than his full share of praise, from those who ought to see through his device. Let us see how much this "striking example" differs from others of his class, that he should be lauded as a virtuous reformer.

"To the wife with a drunken husband, or a friend who is dissipated, I say emphatically, Give me notice of such cases, and all such shall be excluded from my place." Nothing strange in that. It is very common to hear that a fellow who has become a common drunkard has been kicked out of a "respectable" saloon. This man wishes, not to save himself the trouble of doing that, but to insure himself against possible loss. Drunkards, ordinarily, do not have money enough to make it any object to court their custom; what little money they might bring in would be more than counterbalanced by the loss sustained by having them around. Their presence would spoil the reputation of the place.

That this is not an uncharitable view is proved by the next sentence. "I pay a heavy tax for the privilege of selling whisky and other liquors; and I want it distinctly understood that I have no desire to sell to drunkards, or to minors, or to the poor or destitute." Wonderful philanthropist! His disinterested benevolence makes that of George Peabody and Peter Cooper sink into insignificance. "No desire to sell to the poor or destitute." Why not? Because, I have to pay a heavy tax for the privilege of selling whisky, and other liquors. Most saloon-keepers feel the same way, but they do not usually advertise it as an act of virtue. His device is exceedingly transparent, but perhaps it might be made a little plainer if his words were translated thus: "I pay a heavy license for the privilege of robbing the bodies and ruining the souls of men; and I do not care to waste time rifling the pockets of a man who has not a cent; and I have no use for a man whose reputation is gone. Somebody else has been at work on such, and I desire fresh victims. I want only well-to-do men to visit my place, for money is what I am after; and I want these men to have a fair reputation, for then others will be induced to follow their example." This is the true meaning of the advertisement, and the example is "striking" in nothing but its frankness, for this is the principle upon which all saloon-keepers work.

But the last sentence caps the climax. He says: "I much prefer that they [the destitute] save their money, and put it where it will do the most good to their families." Truly this is the refinement of sarcasm. Here a poor, trembling, shivering wretch comes for a glass of whisky. Once he earned a good living at his trade, had a house and lot paid for, kept with all the necessaries of life, and even some of the luxuries, and was independent. Everybody spoke well of him. Now he lives in a hovel, through whose broken windows and battered roof the rain and snow beat, and the chilling wind howls. The few rags which he calls clothes are incapable of affording any protection. His family, if not already dead, are starving and freezing, for he has no money to buy food and clothing. He spent it all in "respectable" saloons. But he has an intolerable thirst, and he begs for "just one glass." And the self-denying saloon-keeper says to him in the kindness of his heart:

"Go home, my good friend, and spend your money where it will do the most good; I don't want it. I never take money from the destitute."

And the man who can do all this, actually lives in Detroit. Is it possible that the millennium is to dawn on the world from that city? We anxiously wait further developments. R. J. W.