"I Opened My Doors to the Traveler"
By Emma Hildreth Adams
THE word of God paints a few fascinating pictures of hospitality—kindness—shown to strangers. Two striking instances occur in the 18th and 19th chapters of Genesis. Both took place in connection with the destruction of that lawless, cruel, doomed city, Sodom. On both occasions distinguished men extended the grace or courtesy. It was offered by both with thrilling urgency and civility. It was offered instantly, without previous preparation or planning, and therefore was genuine hospitality. In the first case, the time must have been about midday, an hour when, naturally, travelers on foot would be weary, hungry, thirsty, and when a glad, free, open invitation to eat, drink, and tarry awhile, would awaken keenest gratitude. The entreaty to rest and wash the feet was made by a prince, seated, a moment before, in his tent-door, himself drowsing there, possibly, because of the noonday fervor. Or, more likely, he was absorbed in thought over a startling promise that had been made him but a short time before. But he lifted up his eyes, and a little way off there stood three strangers. He sprang to his feet, he ran to them, and bowed himself low before them, as was civil to do. Addressing one of them by the term, "My Lord," he besought Him not to pass by, but to partake of refreshments which he would prepare for them; to rest awhile "under the tree," and afterward they might go on their way. The three pedestrians accepted the beautiful grace with readiness and pleasure. They had come from heaven on a mission sad and woful. Of this the man at the tent-door knew nothing. But before that memorable day closed he might have been heard making the exalted entreaty that should there be found in a city, doomed to dreadful extinction the next day, but ten godly men, the multitude of wicked therein should have longer lease of life. From the evening of that notable day there ring down the centuries the cheering tones of another proffer of hearty hospitality to strangers. Two wayfarers of that far-off day approached a certain city's gates, probably just at the set of sun, an hour fitted to stir in the heart of a kindly man feelings of sympathy and compassion for weary travelers. Citizens of the place were hastening thru the gates to their homes and to rest. Soon the twilight would deepen into darkness. And soon, if conscience were not dead, would come the turning the thought backward upon the day's deeds, just or unjust, kind or cruel, open or secret. That city stood upon the famous plain of Jordan, a plain "well-watered everywhere," "even as the garden of the Lord." Gen. 13:10. At its gates that evening sat a man of wealth and influence. And, far better, he had a knowledge of the true God. When the two travelers drew nigh to the gates, he arose quickly, greeted them courteously, and pressed them to tarry all night at his home. Very surprising and striking was their reply: "Nay: but we will abide in the street all night." He urged them greatly. They yielded, and accompanied him to his house where he provided for them a bountiful repast. By these fortunate steps that man saved his life—next day. He had entertained angels unawares. "Yes," the reader will say, "it was an easy matter for those men to be hospitable, to be generous. They were rich in cattle, gold, and silver. They were dependent upon neither a daily wage nor a scanty salary." Ah, true hospitality does not consist in giving lavish feasts, in fine appointments for the rooms of guests, nor entirely in fervent entreaty pressed upon wayfarer or friend. It lies in the high inherent quality of doing the right thing because it is right, according to one's ability, and without thought of compensation of any kind. It exalts the element of brotherhood in mankind. It is doing to another as one would wish that other to do by one's self under the circumstances. Let me recite an instance of noble hospitality. A few years since, in making the trip overland by train from Portland, Ore., to San Francisco, I stopped off, for a night and a day, at the pleasant little village of Medford on the Oregon and California railway. I arrived at Medford at verge of evening. A very gracious letter of introduction brought me a cordial welcome from the young pastor of the Presbyterian church of the village and his wife, in whose home I passed the night. Newspaper interests required of me a visit to Jacksonville, the oldest town of Southern Oregon, and lying five miles to the west of Medford. The conveyance thither was by stage. The vehicle called for me at four o'clock of that arctic March morning. The highway, preeminently rough, was lighted only by the stars. We arrived at Jacksonville just at break of day, and in the office of the hotel found a huge fireplace diffusing great comfort from a body of glowing, snapping wood. The day was spent in obtaining the facts and information I sought, and at sunset I left the noted gold center for Medford. Owing to the roughness of the road it was long after dark when we alighted at the hotel door. Every room in the structure was occupied. To obtain shelter there for the night was impossible. Therefore I set out in pursuit of the home to which I had been warmly welcomed the night before. The evening was very dark. Soon I discovered that I had missed the way. In fact I had walked in the opposite direction. Realizing my position,—in a strange town, the darkness dense, the hour becoming late,—I called at the house nearest me, and rang the bell. A lady answered my summons. I asked her to kindly direct me to the dwelling of Mr. B——. She replied, "Madam, you are far from there." I then gave her my name, told her my errand in Southern Oregon, and explained why I was without shelter at that hour. She replied: "I have moved into this house this day. No rooms are settled. But if you will come in I will give you something to eat. I will make you a bed upon the floor. You shall have perfect welcome, and I will see that you are ready for the train to Ashland at four o'clock in the morning." With heart profoundly grateful I accepted this most unusual courtesy. Before four o'clock she stood at my bedside. While I dressed she prepared me a tempting bit of refreshment. Then, putting on her wraps, she accompanied me to the train, lest I should again miss the way. For all this, no persuasion could prevail upon her to accept the least compensation. Reader, that was true, noble, Christlike hospitality.