THE CURSE OF INTEMPERANCE.
By L. D. Avery-Stuttle
"LOOK not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last, it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." "Now you are going to give us a sermon on intemperance, are you? I'm tired of listening on that subject, its quite hackneyed. I guess I'll step out." Wait, young man, and you, young woman, and you, old man, and old woman, too, if you will. I am not in a mood for sermonizing today. I am just going to tell you a story. "Well," says John, "I'm glad of that. I don't care to be preached at; I'm fully able to take care of myself. But I should consider it very rude to refuse to drink a glass of wine offered me in the name of hospitality and kindness." But, young man, true courtesy never demands the surrender either of self respect, or of conscience. Listen: A few weeks ago I was stopping at the home of a very dear friend who was passing through the deep waters of affliction. Other friends came in for an afternoon visit, until quite a number were present. After a while, those of the party who had recently been deeply afflicted, naturally grouped themselves into a pathetic little circle, each one tearfully repeating the last fond words of the dear departed, or telling sadly, and with falling tears, of the grief and loneliness of those whose hearts had been left bleeding and torn by the grim messenger. But there was one sad-eyed old lady who only sat apart and wept in silence. The others might repeat their tales of sorrow, and receive the tear of sympathy, but she only pressed her lips together the more tightly in a mute and comfortless grief. The luxury of unrestrained mourning which solaces itself with the words of sympathy offered by those sharing a common sorrow might not be hers; for hers was no common sorrow. At last I learned her trouble. A few short months ago she had a boy, the darling of her heart. "Ben was such a good boy," she sobbed, as she confided to me her trouble, "so kind-hearted and generous; everybody loved him. But I wasn't careful enough about the company he kept. He had but one fault, had he, father?" she asked, turning to the sad-eyed old man who shared her sorrow; "just one fault; he learned to love strong drink. We didn't find it out until the habit was pretty firmly established, and then it seemed too late. We used to talk with him and plead with him, father and I, but he only declared there was no danger, that he could break off when he liked. Every time he went to town, I'd sit at home and cry till he came back. "At last one night they brought him home to me—my poor boy, he had been murdered in a drunken brawl. Think of it! the last breath he drew was tainted by the vile stuff which laid him low. O, don't you remember, father," she continued, turning to the old man again, "don't you remember the first prize Bennie ever took at school, how proud we felt?" "Yes, and I remember the first pair of pants you ever made him, mother," and the gray-bearded lip quivered pathetically. "But now he's gone. O, I warned him, I warned him; I wanted him to stay at home with mother and me the very night they killed him, but he would go; he went with the red danger-light flashing in his eyes; he did it presumptuously. The last breath he drew was the tainted breath of a sot." "O, don't, father!" protests the poor mother. "Of course we warned him, you and I, but we weren't half in earnest about it; and we prayed, but we weren't half in earnest about that, either. I see it now, when it's too late. If I could only have him back, my poor boy! I'd plead with the Almighty as I never did before. O, I'd save him! I'd save him! but it's too late—too late now." I felt that it was impossible for human lips to comfort grief like this. But I said to myself, I will tell the story to others. And now I ask, What, what shall we do? My heart goes out toward the young; for I am persuaded that we who are older know but little about the peculiar temptations which beset the young man and woman who lives in this hour of peril, when the devil is come down with great power, knowing that he hath but a short time. And I feel like praying: O pitying Christ! lay the burden for souls upon my heart, and help me to speak or write something which may touch the stony hearts of the parents. O, the fathers and mothers are not half in earnest about the salvation of their sons and daughters! They say, "Yes, it's too bad. John is unconverted, and is forming a taste for strong drink, and Julia is choosing the downward road—too bad!" Then they sigh and turn away. Is this the way they would act if John and Julia were in a burning building, or if they were in a canoe above the rapids of Niagara? Would the mother fold her hands and say, "It's too bad!" Would the father turn carelessly away and say, "I can't help it! I never could influence those children." Would they? Would you? Ah, you would move heaven and earth to save them from a natural death; what are you doing to save them from eternal death? In the name of the pitying Christ, I ask you, What?