p. 274 | A GOOD EXAMPLE

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 17, 1880

A GOOD EXAMPLE.

It was a pleasant change from the monotony of car-life, and I was mentally computing the length of the rails by the area of land over which we had to come—safely so far; and I admit that I breathed easier—when a thump and a sudden cry brought me to my feet. Hacks disgorged their living freight, drivers vociferated, omnibuses tilted against the pavement with porters on the alert for every thing they could lay hands to, and through it all stood the hotel, full and running over with light and warmth and generous cheer. I was the last to leave the coach, and before I had time to mount the steps I caught a glimpse of two well-to-do looking gentleman shaking hands with each other in the most cordial manner.

"Glad to see you, Burt."

"How are you, Hal?" with a warmth that showed no chill to the friendship formed in early boyhood.

It was this friendly greeting that led me to follow them with more interest, perhaps, than ordinarily given to strangers; and later, when taking my ease in a delightful, cosey chair that overlooked the veranda, I heard the remark, "Come, Hal, let's take a drink for old times," I felt the sense of pain, a quick wonderment cut short by the reply of the younger and graver looking man.

"In this you must excuse me, Burt; I never drink."

"Not drink!" with an almost incredulous smile. "I did not know that coming West changed one's habit in that respect."

The face of his friend betrayed emotion, but emotion controlled by a strong will. He did not speak for an instant, and when he did his voice was full of touching tenderness.

"You knew me for a drinking man Burt; it is but your due that I should tell you why I gave it up."

There was no reply, but the bent head and eager gaze was full of interest. The ruddy glow of the western sky fell across the face of the speaker and revealed lines of thought deeply graven on the broad forehead. The voice held the quality that strikes the ear of the listener as not only agreeable but thoroughly honest—such voices are too rare, and it struck me, as this man spoke, that he was exceptionally gifted in this respect—firm, manly, and still cordial, as though he would have the world know; and this was why I listened.

"You know," he remarked, turning his eyes to the face of his friend, while the light played in the meshes of brown hair, "when I came West it was to settle my brother's business, and, if the way opened, as I felt perhaps it would, to take up his work just where he laid it down. As a manufacturer he was singularly successful. From a small establishment and a mere handful of men he had spread himself until his factories could be counted by blocks and his men by hundreds. His widow, a delicate woman, had from the first pined for her eastern home. The activities of the new life did not harmonize with her tastes, and, when her husband died, health failed and it was manifest she must go back. The children were girls; and after placing them in school where their mother could visit them frequently and have the oversight, it was an open path and I resolved to do my best.

"As to the work I must say that I had little or no experience, but a certain aptitude in that direction, and with this, and the determination as closely as possible to follow the plan my brother had marked for himself, I was confident of success.

"Absorbed with business, I knew little of the men, save through the manager. That they were paid regularly was the extent of my care; for the rest Morton knew. Of but one thing did I take a second thought, this was the proposition for a saloon on 'our own premises.' Morton said, 'It does not pay to have the men go to town for their grog. It has a bad tendency and unhinges them for the next day; they won't work, and they are turbulent and hard to manage.'

"'They must have it?' I asked, without any real idea that I had anything to do in the matter.

"'Of course they will have it,' with that kind of seeming superiority not unusual in one of inferior mental calibre. 'Who ever heard of a gang of men who didn't have their whisky?'

"Sometimes when I went home I met my wife coming from the cottages, looking very pale and pitiful.

"'That's the way,' I said; as she told me the story. 'Every week I see that they are paid, and paid well; but they must complain. It is chronic with them.'

"'But, Harry, it is something more than this, so many of the men drink; and it is growing upon them. The very thing of being paid gives them money to spend in the saloon; the wives and children get very little of it.'

"'Well, what can I do?' I rejoined, inwardly chafing that my wife must exhibit such interest in a matter that did so little belong to her. 'They work all right during hours; outside of this I have no right to go.'

"'But, Harry, when I see them so distressed, and when I listen to what the mothers say of the children being afraid and "running away when the father comes home,"' I keep thinking of what is said about being our brother's keeper.'

"'That is like you for a good woman as you are and always wanting to help somebody. I will speak to Morton about it,' was the reply.

"My wife did not make answer. Morton, I knew, was a man distasteful to her; but he was a close manager and I could not do without him.

"After this I gave little or no thought to the subject, sometimes meeting my wife followed by a haggard woman or half-starved child, wondering a little that there should be such a look of destitution and wretchedness. Of course they were improvident—nothing more or less.

"One night I returned to find my wife gone. On the step a woman confronted me. I remembered her as a rarely pretty girl when I first came there. She married a workman, I knew; but this was years ago. On the night in question the sorrow in her face and in her eyes was dashed with a sense of wrong. The expression of her wan, white lips awed me, and suddenly there came a consciousness that I was in part chargeable with her sufferings. The skeleton of a babe was in her arms.

"'Your wife is not at home,' she said; 'perhaps I can speak to you,' looking up without any tears.

"'What can I do for you, my good woman?' I asked, not ashamed to show the interest I felt.

"'Do!' emphasizing the word so that each letter stung like an adder. 'Do! Do as you have been doing: pay my husband every week and let him spend it in the saloon. Your saloon! Ha! ha! pretty well!—paying out money with one hand and taking it back with the other.' The laugh was hysterical, but the look was defiant.

"'It had never before struck me in this way: the saloon was mine—of course the money came back to me.

"'What would you have me do?' I stammered, lifting the babe from her arms, while its blue skeleton fingers clutched at the watch-seal that glittered in the sunshine.

"'Do! Can it be that you ask me?' in the same incisive manner.

"'Why not?' thinking only to appease her.

"'Shut the door of your saloon. Put whisky aside. Say to them that they cannot have it,' while her cheeks flamed up and her eyes had the look of a wild beast at bay.

"'They will go into town in that case,' I answered.

"'Forbid it.'

"'But, my good woman—'

"'There is no other way' she cut me short.

"'Many a time I have seen my husband on his knees praying for this very thing.'

"'That I would forbid him whisky?' I hastened to ask.

"'Yes.'

"'I hire him to work, I pay him for it. I cannot say to him what he shall do with his money,' was my reply.

"'Then the Bible is a lie and God no better than man,' came fiercely.

"I was shocked at the woman's infidelity. Of course the Bible was true and God was to be adored. Somehow I had never considered it in this light; but I knew it now.

"'Listen to what it says,' drawing a small Bible from her pocket. 'Your wife gave it to me one day to comfort me. Cain would never have asked the question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" If he had not felt to combat a truth the assertion of which had been made to him; neither would the answer have sounded down to him: "The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground."'

"When she again spoke it was with a pause between the words.

"'I have read it all. I couldn't be satisfied without seeing for myself. John used to be a good man, and there are times now, when the whisky is out of him. Many a time he's asked for the law to be made strong enough to keep him from ever touching the dreadful stuff. You see he would stop, if he could, but he can't—appetite is too much for him. But God's promises don't seem made for us, or he has forgotten or don't care; there's no use asking.'

"The situation was beginning to be dreadful. If only my wife would come in and I could slip away! For diversion I set the babe on its mother's knee. Instantly her arms closed around it. 'No use asking,' came wearily.

"What did the woman mean? A moment before she was speaking of the Bible. She had read it all, she said. Was it this? No use in asking God to help her? Instantly all that I had in my boyhood learned in the Bible came back to me. It was like a great illumined gallery through which I had walked in my youth. God's denunciations against strong drink, and my own part in the soul-destroying traffic, came home to me with a force I could not master. The question asked in the primeval ages of the world was written in letters of living fire: 'Am I my brother's keeper?' And will God call me to account?

"The woman stood up in a half-dazed fashion.

"'I thought she'd be here. It comforts me always to see her,' letting her eyes wander over the porch and along the hall. 'You won't mind, sir, that I've spoken so freely? John says you have done the right by him all along.'

"'What is it, Harry? What news have you received?'

"'You shall decide whether it is good or bad,' I answered, and briefly I related what my reader already knows. 'And now Morton must be told to close the saloon. Not a drop of liquor will I ever taste. Not a drop of liquor will be used on my premises, and I will employ only those who with me are willing to keep and maintain this pledge.'

"'God be praised, Harry! I knew the time would come. My husband is not a man to do wrong wilfully.'

"'Your husband has done wrong thoughtlessly, and now he will rectify it, and his wife will help him,' I answered, trying to smile.

"'Always, Harry, always!' came quickly."

The sunshine on the dome opposite was gone. Once more there was a shaking of the hands, guests came and went, and through it all another voice keyed to the same measure:

"If railroad corporations and managers and government officials would employ only temperance men, what a reduction there would be in crime, poverty, and wretchedness, what an increase of peace, prosperity, and Godliness!"—National Temperance Advocate.