THE HOME CIRCLE | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · May 16, 1878

THE HOME CIRCLE.

Home Influence.

"WHO is that, I wonder?" said Mrs. Seaburn, as she heard a ring at the basement door.

"Ah! it's Marshall," returned her husband who had looked out at the window and recognized the grocers cart.

"And what have you sent home now Henry?"

But before Mr. Seaburn could answer, the door of the sitting room was opened, and one of the domestics looked in and asked:—

"What'll I do with the demijohns, ma'am?"

"Demijohns?" repeated Mrs. Seaburn.

"Put them in the hall, and I'll attend to them," interposed the husband.

"Henry, what have you sent home now?" the wife asked after the domestic was gone.

"Some nice old brandy," replied Henry.

Cora Seaburn glanced up at the clock, and then looked down upon the floor. There was a cloud upon her fair brow, and it was very evident that something lay heavily upon her heart. Presently she walked to the wall and pulled the bell cord, and the summons was answered by the chambermaid.

"Are George and Charles in their room?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tell them it is school time."

The girl went out, and in a little while two boys entered the sitting room, with their books under their arms and their caps in their hands. They were bright, happy, healthy fellows, with goodness and truth stamped upon their rosy faces, and the light of free consciences gleamed in their sparkling eyes. George was thirteen years of age, and Charles eleven; and certainly those two parents had reason to be proud of them. The boys kissed their mother, gave a happy "good morning" to their father, and then went away to school.

"Come," said Mr. Seaburn, some time after the boys had gone, "what makes you so sober?"

"Sober?" repeated the wife, looking up.

"Yes. You have been sober and mute ever since the grocer came."

"Do you want me to tell you why?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, Henry, I am sorry you had that spirits brought into the house."

"Oh, what's the use of talking so, Cora! You wouldn't have me do without it would you?"

"Yes."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"I mean that I would cut clear of the stuff now and forever."

"But, Cora, you are wild. What should we do at our parties without wine?"

"Do as others who have it not."

"But—mercy!—what would people say?—Are you afraid but no, I won't ask so foolish a question."

"Ask it, Henry. Let me say plainly, now that we have fairly commenced."

"Well, I was about to ask if you were afraid that I should ever drink too much?"

"That's not a fair question, Henry. I was not thinking of that at all. But I will answer it by and by. You have no fixed appetite for it now."

"Of course not."

"Then it would not cost you any effort to abstain from its use?"

"Not a particle."

"And you only have it in your house, and serve it to your friends and drink it yourself because it is fashionable? or, you do it because others do it?"

"I do it because"—said Mr. Seaburn, hesitating in his choice of language—"because it would appear very odd, and very niggardly and very fanatical, not to do it." This last was spoken emphatically.

"But," pursued Mrs. Seaburn, with the calmness and assurance of one who feels the sustaining influence of right, "you would not do what you was convinced were wrong, out of respect to any such consideration, would you?"

"You know I would not, Cora. This question of temperance, I know, is a good one in the abstract, and I am willing to live up to it as I understand it; but I am not a teetotaler."

"Henry," said his wife with an earnest look into his face, "will you answer me a few questions?—answer them honestly and truly, without equivocation or evasion?"

"Bless me, how methodically you put it, Cora! But I will answer."

"Then first—do you believe you, or your friends, are in any way benefited by the drinking of intoxicating beverages at your board? That is—do you derive any real good from it?"

"No, I can't say that we do."

"Do you think the time has ever been since we were married, when we actually needed wine in the house, either for our health or comfort?"

"Why, I think it has added to our comfort Cora."

"How?"

"In many ways."

"Name one of them."

"Why, in the enjoyment of our guests."

"Ah! But I am speaking of ourselves, Henry—of you, and of our own little family. Has it ever ministered to our comfort?"

"No, I can't say that it has."

"And if it were banished from our house to-day and forever, as a beverage, should we suffer in consequence?"

"Certainly. What would our friends—"

"Ah! but stop. I am only speaking of our own affairs, shut out from the world, by our own fireside. I want all extraneous considerations left out of the question. Should we, as a family, suffer in our moral, physical, social or domestic affairs, in the total abstinence of this beverage?"

"No, I don't know that we should."

"Then to you, as a husband and a father, and as a man, it is of no earthly use?"

"No."

"And it would cost you no effort, so far as you alone are concerned, to break clear from it?"

"Not a particle."

"And now, Henry," pursued the wife, with increased earnestness, "I have a few more questions to ask: Do you believe that the drinking of intoxicating beverages is an evil in this country?"

"Why, as it is now going on, I certainly do."

"And isn't it an evil in society?"

"Yes."

"Look over this city, and tell me if it is not a terrible evil!"

"A terrible evil grows out of the abuse of it, Cora."

"And will you tell me what good grows out of the use of it?"

"Really, when you come down to the abstract point, you have the field. But people should govern their appetites. All things may be abused."

"Yes. But will you tell me the use—the real good—to be derived from drinking wine and brandy?"

"As I said before, it is a social custom, and has its charms."

"Ah! there you have it, Henry. It does have its charms, as the deadly snake is said to have, and as other vices have. But I see you are in a hurry."

"It is time I was at the store."

"I will detain you but a moment longer, Henry. Just answer me a few more questions. Now call to mind all the families of your acquaintance; think of all the domestic circles you have known from your schoolboy days to the present; run your thoughts through the various homes where you have been intimate—do this, and tell me, if in any one instance you ever knew a single joy to be planted by the hearth-stone from the wine cup? Did you ever know one item of good to flow to a family from its use?"

"No; I cannot say that I ever did—not as you mean."

"And now answer me again. Think of those homes once more—call to memory the playmates of your childhood, of the homes, think of the firesides where you have known dwell—and tell me if you have seen any sorrows flow from the wine cup? Have you seen any great griefs planted by the intoxicating bowl upon the hearth-stone?"

Henry Seaburn did not answer, for there passed before him such grim spectres of sorrow and grief that he shuddered at the mental vision. He saw the youth cut down in the hour of promise; he saw the gray head fall in dishonor; he saw hearts broken; he saw homes made desolate; he saw affection wither and die; and saw noble intellect stricken down! Oh! what sights he saw as he unrolled the canvas of his memory.

"Henry," whispered his wife, moving to his side, "We have two boys. They are growing to be men. They are noble generous, and tender. They love their home and honor their parents. They are here to form those characters, to receive those impressions, which shall be the basis upon which their future weal or woe must rest. Look at them—oh! think of them. Think of them doing battle in the great struggle of the life before them. Shall they carry out from their home our evil influence? Shall they in the time to come fall by the way-side, cut down by the demon of the cup, and in their dying hour curse the example whence they derived the appetite? Oh! for our children—for those two boys—for the men we hope to see them—for the sweet memories we would have them cherish of their home—for the good old age they may reap—let us cast this thing out now and forever!"

Cora ceased speaking; and Henry, without another word left the house and went to his store.

How strangely did circumstances work to keep the idea his wife had given him alive in his mind! That very morning he met a youth, the son of one of his wealthy friends, in a state of wild intoxication; and during the forenoon he heard that Aaron Green had died at sea. He knew that Aaron had been sent away from home that he might be reclaimed.

After the bank closed, and as Henry Seaburn was thinking of going to his dinner, he received a note through the penny post. It was from a medical friend, and contained a request that he would call at the hospital on his way home. The hospital was not much out of the way, and he stopped there.

"There is a man in one of the lower wards who wishes to see you," said the doctor.

"Does he know me?" asked Seaburn.

"He says he does."

"What is his name?"

"He won't tell us. He goes by the name of Smith; but I am satisfied that such is not his true name. He is in the last stage of consumption and delirium. He has lucid intervals, but they do not last long. He has been here a week. He was picked up in the street and brought here. He heard your name, and said he knew you once."

Mr. Seaburn went to the room where the patient lay, and looked at him. Surely he never knew that man! "There must be some mistake," he said.

The invalid heard him, and opened his eyes—such blood-shot eyes!

"Henry," he whispered, trying to lift himself up on his elbow; "is this Henry Seaburn?"

"That is my name."

"And don't you know me?"

"I am sure I do not." And he would have said he did not wish to, only the man seemed so utterly miserable that he would not wound what little feelings he might have left.

"Have you forgotten your old playmate in boyhood, Harry—your friend in other years, your chum in college?"

"What!" gasped Seaburn, startling back aghast, for a glimmer of the truth burst upon him. "This is not Alec Lomberg?"

"All that is left of him, my Hal," returned the poor fellow, putting forth his wasted, skeleton hand, and smiling a faint, quivering, dying smile.

"Alexander Lomberg?" said Henry, gazing into the bloated, disfigured face before him.

"You wouldn't have know me, Hal?"

"Indeed, no!"

"I know. I am altered."

"But, Alec," cried Seaburn, "how is this? Why are you here?"

"Rum, my Hal—RUM! I'm about done for. But I wanted to see you. They told me you lived not far away, and I would look upon one friend before I died."

"But I heard you were practicing in your profession, Alec, and doing well."

"So I did do well when I practiced, Hal. I have made some pleas, but I have given up all that."

"And your father—where is he?"

"Don't mention him; he taught me to drink! Ay, he taught me! and then turned the cold shoulder upon me when I drank too much! But I'm going, Hal—going, going!"

Henry Seaburn gazed into that terrible face, and remembered what its owner had been—the son of wealthy parents; the idol of a fond mother; the favorite at school, at play, and at college; a light of intellect and physical beauty, and a noble, generous friend.

And now, alas! "Alec, can I help you?"

"Yes." And the poor fellow started higher up from his pillow, and something of the light struggled for a moment in his eyes. "Pray for me, Hal. Pray for my soul! for my mother's sake. Oh! she was a good mother, Hal. Thank God she din't live to see this! Pray for me—pray—pray!"

As the wasted man sank back he fell to weeping, and in a moment more, one of his paroxysms came on, and he began to rave. He thought Harry was his father, and he cursed him; and cursed the habit that had been fastened upon him under that father's influence. But Henry could not stop to listen. With an aching heart he turned away and left the hospital. He could not go home to dinner then; he went down town, and got dinner there. At night he went to the hospital again. He would inquire after his friend, if he did not see him.

"Poor fellow!" said the physician, "he never came out of that fit; he died in half an hour after you went out."

It was dark when Henry Seaburn reached home. "You didn't tell Bridget where to put those demijohns, Henry," said his wife. She had not noticed his face, for the gas was burning but dimly.

"Ah! I forgot. Come down with me, Cora, and we'll find a place for them."

His wife followed him down into the basement, and one by one he took the demijohns and carried them into the rear yard, there he emptied their contents into the sewer. Then he broke the vessels in pieces with his foot, and bade Bridget have the dirtman take the fragments away in the morning. Not one word had he spoken to his wife all the while,

nor did she speak to him. He returned to the sitting room, where his boys were at their books, and took a seat on the sofa. He called his wife and children about him, and then he told them the story of Alexander Lomberg.

"And now, my loved ones," he added, laying his hand upon the heads of his boys, "I have made a solemn vow that henceforth my children shall find no such influence at their home. They shall never have the occasion to curse the example of their father. I will touch the wine-cup no more forever! What say you, my boys—will you join me in that pledge?"

They joined him with glad willingness; for their hearts were full, and their sympathies all turned, by a mother's careful love, to right.

"And you Cora?"

"Yes, yes!" she cried. "And may the holy lesson of this hour never be forgotten. O God! let it rest, as an angel of mercy, upon my boys! Let it be a light to their feet in the time of temptation; and so shall they bless through life the influence they carry with them from their home!"—Sel.