Who Killed This Man?

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Dec 18, 1879

Who Killed This Man?

[The following is taken from a French tract, entitled, "Traite sur la Temperance." It appears that in a certain village a series of meetings was being held, and towards the close of one of them the incident herein spoken of was narrated to one of the last speakers. We find it in our French paper printed in Basel, Switzerland, Les Signes des Temps. The English rendering is by Bro. Gardner, of Oakland, Cal., for the Signs of the Times.]

THERE was a gathering in the village. The trains passed near the house wherein it was being held, and each, in passing, attracted the attention of the company by its sharp, shrill whistle, which filled the air with its vibrations. The evening passed agreeably. The house was filled; the hearts were happy; the faces radiant; their addresses were excellent; music admirable; and, in short, all was calculated to inspire the company with life and gaiety.

This same evening an incident took place, the narration of which, gave to the last speaker's remarks a special force. Nearly two miles distant, on the line of the railroad, a man was run over by the locomotive and terribly mutilated. He had been drinking, had passed the station where he wished to get out, and had come on to the next. Discerning his error, he conceived the idea of visiting our village. They showed to him the road, and he took his route; but he had not taken one-hundred steps before a public house attracted his attention. He entered and passed all of the afternoon. Leaving, in his state of intoxication, he blundered on to the rail-road track, and retraced his steps, until again within about gunshot of the public house, where he was overtaken by the train. The engineer did not see him soon enough to stop, and the warning he gave but brought the poor unfortunate nearer to the locomotive, by which he was instantly cut to pieces. The news came to the last speaker as he was about to rise to speak, and, in ending, he confirmed his arguments and appeals by narrating the facts of this sad incident.

Immediately after, the president made some few remarks regarding the same, and propounded, finally, this question: "Who killed this man?" The audience dispersed under an impression the most profoundly solemn. We, ourselves, were also greatly affected by the rehearsal of this sad event. We retired to seek repose, but our sleep was agitated and interrupted by involuntary reflections, and we heard continually resounding in our ears this question of the president, "Who killed this man?" The president and his hearers were completely convinced that this question could not find a satisfactory response in the fact that the locomotive had mangled the poor unfortunate's body. The locomotive was but fulfilling the object for which it was made, and the engineer was at his post; hence we could not in any manner accuse either the locomotive or the conductor. "Who killed this man?" This question resounded in our ears with a growing force, and, in thinking of the response we should conscientiously give, our minds were carried back over some diverse scenes, each connected one to the other by their relation to this incident. We commence, naturally, by retracing his steps on the fatal day. With this end in view, we first consider the place where he came to his death; and, while our minds are arrested on the fatal line, the cry, "Who killed this man?" mounts from the rails and the bloody ground, seeming to cry, as Abel, accusing the first murderer. It was liquor that brought him there, and it was there the locomotive struck him, and it was he, himself, who took the drink, which caused him to leave the right road and to blunder onto the rail-road track. And, while our minds were plunged in these sad reflections, this question presented itself to us: "Did not this man commit suicide?" We could but accept this as a veritable response to our first question. But again, far distant, came the same cry to our ears, inviting us to continue our investigations. By thought we visited the house where, for the last time, he became intoxicated; that house wherein he had taken the fatal drink which had finally obscured his reason and conducted him to his death.

Among us in this temperance reunion was found the son of him who had sold this drink. He had listened attentively to all that had been said, and afterwards rehearsed the same to his parents; and, as we heard him recounting this, and what had been his impressions, the echo brought to us these words, "Who killed this man?" sending a chill of horror through those who heard. That night a dark cloud rested over their home, which, though invisible to human eyes, was none the less real. The noise of the wind which wailed on all sides of the house seemed to be the sharp, shrill whistle of the locomotive, and sepulchral voices seemed to cry, "Who killed this man?" Leaving these persons to the just accusations of their own consciences, we will take our route. We enter several drinking places wherein he had drunk on that day. In each place this question making itself to be heard, "Who killed this man?" And, in answer, we heard, distinctly murmured in our ears, these words: "If those who sold to him the last glass are to blame, are not those culpable who sold to him the first, and all of the others, also?" But the same question, clear, and distinct, invites us still to continue our researches.

We obey, and soon find ourselves in an assembly of magistrates on the day when licences were accorded; on the day when, by law, the liberty was given to those who had sold the drink, which, step by step, had finally brought to his death this poor unfortunate. The ministers, and the aged, and honorable merchants had signed the certificates, by means of which, dram sellers had been enabled to obtain licences to sell spirituous drinks. These certificates being read, and, as we enter in the imagination the homes of the ministers, and the offices of the merchants, wherein these papers had been signed, this question presented itself to us, "Who killed this man?" And, while this resounded in our ears, the thought came to us to go still further, and ask if those who delivered these certificates, granting licences for the sale of ardent spirits had no part of responsibility in this affair?

The scene is again changed. We come now to an establishment, sad, and solemn, surrounded by a disagreeable oder, and here we see the good grain, which God has given man for his nourishment, pressed and tortured to extract a liquor of the same quality as that this man had taken. While there our eye caught that of the distiller, and the question resounded far and near throughout this vast establishment, "Who killed this man?" Without remaining longer in this infected place, we will direct our steps to the verdant fields and abundant harvest; and here, we hear the price of grain discussed with animation, and the farmer endeavors to sell his fine and beautiful crop at the highest price to the distiller. The grain is bargained for, prepared for transportation, and brought in wagons to the granery of the distillery, and the noise of the sheaves and of the flail, and all other like sounds, seemed to combine in asking the question, "Who killed this man?" Immediately after, with the rapidity of thought, we seemed transported to the chamber of the Legislature. The legal code was opened, and there we could read the laws concerning the liberty of the manufacture of spirits, and their sale.

In good reliable books we had read that drink had often caused deaths much more terrible than the one before us, and while regarding these laws, granting liberty to the manufacturer of spirituous liquors, laws sanctioned by senators assembled, a horrible spectacle passed before our eyes. It was a long fantastic procession of the dead, killed by the spiritous drink. And while they passed rapidly and noiselessly before us, the cry came from their fleshless throats, "Who killed us?" But they had no response. They could only find in the documents of the Government that showing who had authorized the sale of the spirits.

Another scene appeared, but always the same cry repeated itself, "Who killed this man?" In divers places devoted to the sale of spirits we saw this man with his joyous companions, who by their precept and example had encouraged him in this life of debauch; not only on the last day of his life, but for years previous we saw these companions in iniquity pressing and encouraging him in his downward course, which finally led to his death. And, in the midst of this noise and gaiety, of the songs and hurrahs, the final tragic end of this unfortunate always before our minds, and above all other noise and din, this question came to our ears, "Who killed this man?" And immediately a fleshless and bony finger seemed to respond by pointing to all of those who were present. Mounting always higher, we find several who used to urge him to drink at the end of his day's labor, and we are introduced into more than one of those joyous social reunions, occasioned by some fete or other. In one of these reunions of friends, the anniversary of a birthday, a baptism, or a burial, occasions when liquors are liberally used, we see multitudes of these persons, who by their presence alone, had encouraged this man in the use of spirits, and always this same question returns, "Who killed this man?"

All of these persons, whom we would place far above suspicion—had they nothing to do with this frightful death? They think not; but did they not, nevertheless, water the seed which produced the mortal fruits? We visit his home. It is a home truly desolate. We here see his wife, a widow now, a victim of his cruelty. The last thing he did while at home was to strike and abuse her. Near this unhappy woman, we find two children, one of whom is a cripple. Who can say that this is not the work of the father? Notwithstanding, he had at one time a happy home, and a joyous, lovable wife. This woman had become a poor miserable creature. She sobbed bitterly on seeing what had come to pass, although she was, at the same time, delivered from a drunkard and a tyrant. Once, she had lit up this humble home with her smile, and her husband had found his joy in the modest and comfortable bosom of his family. But he had commenced to drink, and she smiled and made light of it. The clouds began to gather; the cottage became gloomy, and the face of this woman became clothed with an expression of profound sadness. When drunk he abused and beat her, and he continued to drink until, at last, in his state of intoxication he stumbled and fell, never again to rise. And here again, in the midst of the lamentations of this widowed woman, comes this same cry, in accents heart-rending, "Who killed this man?" And, involuntarily, we turn ourselves to this poor desolate woman; we deplore that she ever smiled under the drunken blow, and would that from the first she had declared open war with him.

And, finally, we find ourselves in the home of his father, and on the table of his father he finds the bottle and the glass, for his friends have come to visit them, and he, little fellow with the curly head, is there. He hears his father press his friends to take a glass; he hears his mother, whose voice had for him a personal charm, aid his father on these occasions, and the little fellow, in considering what was going on, says to himself, "That that my father and mother recommends and offers must be good." And afterwards scene after scene unfolds before us in this house, when drink is served to warm one up, or to render gay, to drive away fatigue, or to enable to support the same. Then they had these special occasions where the members of the family united to celebrate such anniversaries as Chrismas or New-years. Then they brought out the spiritous drinks to enliven the company. At each repetition of these occasions the taste of the young man is strengthened. He enters into the world where he is exposed to temptation; he finds companions, endeavors to make a home for himself; but instead of resisting temptation he is inspired with the idea that spiritous drinks should not be avoided, but rather more fully valued and appreciated.

As we considered all these things we thought of our own dear little ones, and what fate might be theirs, and we felt a strange sensation when the same mournful question repeated itself, "Who killed this man?" His own parents, had they no part in his death?

And now, dear reader, let us ask of you, if you never knew of anyone dying in a state of drunkenness, caused by spirituous drinks, whose fate struck you with horror? and at the same time, have you not at some time, and in some manner, encouraged such a person in the use of that which caused his ruin? Memory, so faithful and quick, by its mysterious powers brings the past before you and shows to you what your behaviour and example was towards those who are now lost. Can you look back and say with confidence, "I am innocent?" If your conscience, with a voice of thunder, strongly accuses you for having had a part in that which has brought about such sad consequences, or if, at the same time, it murmurs softly in our ears a doubt of your innocence in this affair, and if it calls you to abstain from the use of spirits in the future, and be thus free from the blood of those who die victims of intemperance, then lend your ears to its counsels, and show in this that you possess the spirit of the Lord, who said, "The Son of man is not come to destroy life but to save it."