p. 202 | BENNIE | AdventAI

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · May 6, 1880

BENNIE.

No one thought of calling it "The Elms," or "The Oaks," or "The willows," although the little stream running through the farm was fringed with willows, while elms of a century's growth adorned the meadows, and the adjacent hills were crowned with gigantic oaks. It was just the old homestead, dear to the heart of every child born to share of its possessions.

Eight sons and daughters had been here nurtured and educated, to go forth and play their part in the great drama of life. Of these, one remained at home to care for father and mother, and till the broad acres which constituted their whole material wealth.

People said it was strange there should be such a diversity of gifts in the same family; but there was not one characteristic which the parents did not trace back to some ancestor personally or traditionally known.

The fairest face was like to that of an old portrait treasured as a precious heirloom. The oldest son, winning fame and more substantial rewards for eloquent appeals and powerful argument, had a double claim to the name of one of the old colonial lawyers. There was "the doctor," whose dower of medical and surgical skill might have been transmitted from one of the first physicians of the old time. The merchant emulated the example of another merchant whose East India ventures had brought him immense profits. There was also a sweet singer and player upon instruments, especially delighting in the legendary history of a kins-woman who had enchanted all who heard her by the melody of her voice and the witchery of her fingers.

But, alas! there was a taint in the blood, manifesting itself from time to time in the recklessness and dissipation of some members of the family. Their names were spoken with bated breath and the hearts they had broken gave few signs of the agony endured, yet they were never forgotten. They were the brightest and bravest of all, but they had fallen before an enemy as insidious as it is deadly.

"We have five boys. Pray God the curse may pass them by," said the noble mother to her husband when these boys were all resting securely in their home.

"Amen," was responded fervently.

"We must pray, and labor, and trust. I have no fear of Richard, or Daniel, or Thomas, or William. They are true and firm whatever principle is at stake."

"Bennie is tenderest of them all," the mother hastened to say, as if reassuring herself. "He is a dear, handsome boy, and if he does wrong he is quick to confess it and ask forgiveness."

"Yes, wife, he has a tender heart, and we can trust him in God's keeping. If he would be contented to settle down with us here, he wouldn't have so many temptations; but he'll be sure to want to go to the city. He can make his way there, too, and make friends, if—"

"Don't speak it, husband. I can't bear to doubt one of my boys. I don't suppose I love my boys better than other mothers love theirs, but I can't feel for others as I do for myself. They must bide their time, and I must bide mine, but may God save Bennie!"

Forty years went by. The husband and father died, but the mother still lived, with faculties unimpaired and mother-love undimmed. The moth of roses would witness her eightieth birthday. Children and grandchildren were summoned to celebrate the occasion, and their hearty responses testified to the warmth of affection she had inspired. When the long-looked-for day arrived she was like a queen receiving the homage of loyal and loving subjects.

But there was one missing. Bennie, the tenderest of them all and the first to acknowledge a fault, had died many years before, leaving a wife and son, the latter then too young to realize the loss which had fallen upon them. He had not seen much of his grandmother. They had met only during brief visits, when the novelty of country life had absorbed his whole attention. But he was now fast growing to manhood, and naturally thought more of his father and his father's home.

His mother, who had remained a widow, and whom recent losses of property had compelled to think seriously of the future of herself and son, was glad to leave the surroundings of fashion and gayety to which she had been all her life accustomed. So she came and sat at the feet of one who both counselled and consoled her.

"It is better for Amos to depend on himself than to have a fortune put in his hands," said the old lady tenderly. "I don't know but you'll think hard of me for it, but I was ready to thank the Lord when I knew the bank had failed that you had so much money in. Richard says there's enough for you, and Amos don't need it; he don't, dear;" and a wrinkled hand was laid lovingly upon the up-turned brow of her daughter-in-law.

"But I don't think of myself, mother; it is for Amos I wish to do so much. He is the only link between me and my husband, and it seems to me that never another woman loved her husband as I loved mine."

"I know you loved my Bennie, dear, and he loved you; and your boy is like what mine was at his age, only mine was brought up to work on a farm, and yours was brought up in the city without work."

"It was not necessary for Amos to work. There was enough for us both and my father was glad to provide for us."

"Yes, dear, but your boy needs the discipline of work. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but my Bennie had one failing. It troubled you, dear, as it did me, and I've worried for fear Amos would be like his father about liquor. As far back as we can go in my husband's family, there's always been one hard drinker in every generation. Sometimes there's been more, but always one, and it seems strange it should be—it's been them that might done the best if it hadn't been for drinking. I never told you of this before, but I thought the right time had come to put you on your guard."

"I knew my husband's weakness and I thought about it; it troubled me a little sometimes," said the younger woman hesitatingly; "but I never feared that he would dishonor himself or neglect me. I know he never would have abused me."

"I am thankful he never did, dear. He was generous and loving."

"And so is Amos, mother. He has been my comfort all these years."

"And I hope he will be your comfort as long as he lives. But I tremble for you both sometimes. He don't know what 'tis to deny himself much that he wants."

"No, mother, he don't; it has been a pleasure to me to gratify his wishes. I never thought he needed to be taught self-denial. I have trusted his father, and I have trusted him. Perhaps I have indulged him too much. His Uncle Richard might have done better for him than I have, but I intended to do right. Please talk to him, mother; he reverences you, and you can have great influence over him."

Amos was the favorite nephew and cousin, strikingly like his father, and proud of the resemblance; yet Richard Stanwood knew of grave irregularities committed by his father when under the influence of intoxicating drinks. There were business deficits, also, which had been concealed from the public, while brothers and sisters had contributed of their means to replace the funds squandered by his extravagance. They had done this without the knowledge of their mother, but she knew enough of this son's career to cause her much sorrow.

So far as possible his wife had been spared all loss of confidence in her husband, but she was now plainly warned of the danger which seemed imminent.

"What shall I do for Amos to make sure that he will continue temperate?" asked Mrs. Benjamin Stanwood after a long silence, in which she reviewed many events now invested with a new significance. "Some of his young friends have taken a pledge never to taste even a drop of wine, or ale, or beer; but when my father was alive he ridiculed such pledges as foolish and unmanly. It dosen't seem to me possible that Amos needs to be bound by any promises in regard to the use of wine."

"I think he does need it, dear; I should feel safer about him. My Bennie needed to take such a pledge, but when he was young, folks didn't understand about it as well as they do now, and wine wa'n't reckoned with rum and brandy. Such a pledge would have saved my boy. If he'd put his name to it, he'd kept it; he wouldn't break his word."

"No more would Amos; he says his word shall be as good as his bond. He is a truthful boy."

"I'm glad of it. Then if he'd sign the total abstinence pledge he'd be safe. I wish every one of my children and grandchildren would sign it."

"Tell them so, mother; now is the very time. No one will refuse to grant you the favor."

"Then write the pledge, dear, and I will do what I can."

When this was presented a murmur of surprise passed from lip to lip, and there were several not quite prepared to bind themselves to such abstinence; but it was mother's birthday, and she had a right to expect compliance with her requests. One after another affixed their names, cheerfully or reluctantly, yet all with an earnest purpose.

Amos kept himself in the back-ground, thus revealing his unwillingness to sign the pledge, and at the same time betraying his need of so doing. His was the very last signature, and, having written it in bold characters, he said with sharp emphasis, while tears filled his eyes:—

"Grandmother, that was the hardest of anything you could have asked me to do; but now I have taken the pledge, I will keep it, and may God help me!"—M. D. Chellis in Nat. Temp. Adv.