"Hop Growers, Protect Your Interests."
By H. D. Clarke
SUCH were the words printed boldly on handbills and scattered broadcast among voters at a recent town meeting. The struggle was over the question of license or no-license. The town had been professedly for temperance a great many years. Rum-sellers had been prosecuted to the full extent of the law, some paying fines, some suffering imprisonment, until the people had come to feel quite secure, and few men were seen under the influence of liquor. Men raised hops and voted no-license, men picked hops, "pulled poles," "tended box," and voted no-license; men manufactured hop-boxes, and hop-presses, and hop-stoves, and built hop-houses, and voted no-license. They were Christian men by profession, and were considered temperance men. A few in advance of the times ventured to assert that no person could engage in the hop business, directly or indirectly, and be a temperance man. They were even positive enough to say that the lines would soon be more closely drawn, and in the struggle these hop men would array themselves on the side of rum and become the desperate opposers of the great temperance reform. Few believed that, and such prophets were accused of fanaticism, etc.; but the lines are now drawn and the fanatic is vindicated. The years 1882 and 1883 witnessed this order of things, and to-day more than one strong temperance town stands ready to grant licenses because of the unholy hop trade. We left our Verona home March 5, not having been a resident of the county long enough to be a voter, and so we visited some forty miles away on town-meeting day. The excitement was intense when we arrived at our journey's end. People were talking at every corner over the prospect. "Will the town go for license?" "Yes, for the hop growers are making a desperate effort to carry it." Night came; the votes were counted. The infernal regions were holding high carnival over the victory for rum. "Those handbills, and hard work, done the business." Said Satan, "Now for a dozen saloons there, and the work will be nearly complete." O, the scenes we now foresee! Men who have lived there where liquor could not as easily be obtained, men struggling with appetite are to be tempted, overcome, ruined, and hurled to perdition, to gratify the covetous hop-growers. Happy homes made desolate to gratify the hop-pickers. Anxious mothers waiting for the return of their wandering boys who find their pleasure in the saloon licensed by the hop-grower, and manufacturer of utensils to supply that trade. We will not try to picture the scenes. The wicked work has commenced, and angels weep over the prospect. One thing, however, has been settled, thank God. We no longer fight a secret foe. With the distillers, rum-sellers, and keepers of grog-shops, are united the hop-growers, hop-pickers and all who for the almighty dollar favor the traffic. We know where to find them and where to aim our guns. The thought is painful, however, that this business is woven like the warp and woof of a fabric, all through the church in hop-growing districts. Saints of God, wash your hands of this iniquity. Separate yourselves from these emissaries of the evil one. And for goodness sake, ye hop-growers and pickers, don't put on the livery of heaven with which to serve the devil. Repent of your evil deeds and be for God and truth, or else leave the church and be consistent. You have no business there as a professor of religion while you are willing to sell the souls of your fellow-men for a pound of hops. But our appeal will no doubt be in vain. Hops at a dollar a pound will stifle convictions, and this Juggernaut of death will roll on. Dead men in drunkard's graves will not stop them. Live men going down to ruin and shame, will not keep them back. Show them a bloated, staggering wreck of manhood, still loved by some broken-hearted wife, and pray them to stop raising and selling death, and they will yell out in utter defiance, "Hops are a dollar per pound; drive on." And away goes the chariot of beer, rum, and alcohol, through our land, crushing hearts and hopes, life and limb, rich and poor, saint and sinner. "Hop-growers, protect your interests." Yes, and may Heaven have mercy on your souls.—H. D. Clarke, in Sabbath Recorder.