OUR COUNTRY, OUR HOMES AND OUR DUTY. A PLEA FOR THE HOME AGAINST THE
SALOON.
The sweetest word in the language we speak is home. No matter in what
clime or country, whether where sunbeams dance and play or frost fiend
rules the air, there's no place like home. At the World's Fair in
Chicago I visited the Eskimo village. To a woman who could speak
English I said: "How do you like this country?"
"Beautiful, beautiful country. Oh, the flowers, the green grass, the
lovely homes!" was her reply.
But when I ventured to ask: "Will you remain here after the fair and
not return to your land of ice and snow," she shook her head and said:
"No, I want to go home. I am so homesick."
"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." In Lexington,
Kentucky, there is a modest looking house, nestled mid linden and
locust trees. Visitors who pass in quest of historic spots about the
far-famed city, seldom give even a glance at that humble abode. Yet
when I am far away, whether in the wonderful west with its scenic
grandeur, or in the east surrounded by mansions of millionaires, my
heart goes back in memory's aeroplane to the old Blue Grass town,
where six generations of my family sleep, the dearest spot on earth to
me--"home, sweet home." When years ago I was nearing the end of a
three months' lecture tour in California, a friend invited me to join
him on a visit to Yosemite Valley, saying: "You will see the grandest
scenery and biggest trees in the world." My reply was: "I thank you
very much, but my engagements in the golden west close on the eighth
and I will start east on the ninth; my old Kentucky home is grander to
me than Yosemite Valley and my baby bigger than any tree in
California."
Someone has said the nearest spot to heaven in this world is a happy
home, where the parents are young and the children small. I don't know
about that. It seems to me a little nearer heaven is the home where
husband and wife have lived long together, where children honor
parents and parents honor God; where the aged wife can look her
husband in the face and give him the sentiment of the dame of John
Anderson:
"John Anderson, my jo John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
"John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' one anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo."
James A. Garfield said: "It's by the fireside, where calm thoughts
inspired by love of home and love of country, the history of the past,
the hope of the future, God works out the destiny of this republic."
A Spartan general pointing to his army said: "There stand the walls of
Sparta and every man's a brick." Can I not point to the homes of our
country and say: "There stand the walls of this republic and every
home's a brick." Suppose a battery, planted on some eminence outside
this city, were to send a shell through some building every hour; how
long until your beautiful city would be one of crumbling walls and
flying population? On yonder heights of law are planted two hundred
thousand rum batteries, sending shells of destruction through the
homes of the people and every day hundreds of homes are knocked out of
the walls of the republic.
Do you realize what it means when an American home is destroyed by
drink? Some years ago on Sunday afternoon I visited an eastern
penitentiary by invitation of the chaplain. Passing a row of cells my
attention was called to a man whose face bore the marks of
intelligence and refinement. The chaplain said: "That man is an ideal
prisoner and a born gentleman, though here for life. He is the
graduate of an eastern college. He married an accomplished young
woman. In social life he was led into the drink habit, and it grew
upon him until at times he became intoxicated. When under the
influence of liquor his reason was dethroned, and one night in a brawl
he killed a man. He was given a life sentence. Asking permission to
speak he said: 'I have no complaint to make of the verdict, but beg
the privilege of saying, God who knows the secrets of all hearts,
knows I am not a murderer at heart, for I don't know how nor when I
killed my friend.' A few days after he entered this prison his wife
came to visit him. She had with her a sweet little golden-haired
child. As he entered the office in his striped prison garb his wife
fell into his arms; the agony on that man's face I can never forget.
The child shrank from him at first, then recognizing her father, she
ran to him. As he hugged her to his bosom the little one twined her
arms about his neck and said: 'Papa, please come home with us. Mama
cries so much cause you don't come home.' The man sinking into a chair
said: 'O God, am I never to see my home again?'"
This is but one of the thousands of homes destroyed every year by the
drink curse. If I could draw aside the veil and let you look into the
desolate homes of your own city tonight, you would feel Ex-Governor
Hanley of Indiana did not give an overwrought picture when he said:
"Personally, I have seen so much physical ruin, mental blight and
moral corruption from strong drink that I hate the traffic. I hate it
for its arrogance; I hate it for its hypocrisy; I hate it for its
greed and avarice; I hate it for its domination in politics; I hate it
for its disregard of law; I hate it for the load it straps on labor's
back; I hate it for the wounds it has given to genius, for the human
wrecks it has wrought, for the alms-houses it has peopled, for the
prisons it has filled, for the crimes it has committed, the homes it
has destroyed, the hearts it has broken, the malice it has planted in
the hearts of men, and the dead sea fruit with which it starves
immortal souls." With proof of the truth of this phillipic on every
hand, it is a strange anomaly in our government that the degrading
influence of the saloon is linked by law to the elevating influence of
school, church and home.
When Jesus was on earth He came to a fig tree, dressed in rich leaves
but barren of fruit; it was in fig season but the tree had only
leaves. We read that Jesus cursed the tree and it withered. We have in
this country a upas tree named the liquor traffic. It is not a barren
tree, but far worse than barren. Its branches bend with the weight of
its fruit, but not a pint, nor a quart, nor gallon, nor barrel from
its boughs ever benefited a single mortal by its use as a beverage.
Its leaves drip with poison and the bones of its dead victims would
build a pyramid as high as Appenines piled on the Alps. Jesus withered
the tree that produced nothing. We license and cultivate the tree
whose fruitage the Bible compares to the bite of a serpent, the sting
of an adder and the poison of asps.
In the earlier days of the temperance movement, when we discussed the
question along moral lines, the license advocates made it an economic
question, but since the commercial world is fast becoming a great
temperance league, and great industries are blacklisting the saloon as
an enemy of legitimate business, the liquor advocates are taking
refuge behind the Bible, and claiming that He who cursed the tree that
was barren, planted the one whose root and heart, bark and branches
are poisoning the blood of the nation. They pervert scripture, take
isolated passages and present an ominum gatherum of quotations to
prove the Bible indorses the use of strong drink. By the same process
I can prove one of these Bible license scholars should hang himself
and be in haste about it. I read on one page of the Bible, "Judas went
out and hanged himself." On another page I read, "Go thou and do
likewise." And on another, "Whatsoever thou doest, do it quickly."
Against these sacrilegious uses of scripture, I place the estimate of
the fruit of this upas tree from one whose words are unmistakable, and
whose wisdom none can question. Solomon said: "Wine is a _mocker_."
Was there ever a word of more weight in its application? When a boy in
school nothing so vexed me and made me want to fight, as for a boy to
_mock_ me. I remember when one of the prettiest girls in school made
faces at me and _mocked_ me; from that hour I could never see any
beauty in that girl's face, nor have I quite forgiven her to this day.
When the Jews wanted to heap the greatest indignity possible upon
Jesus, when they had driven the nails in His hands, pierced His side,
placed the crown of thorns upon His head and pressed the bitter cup to
His lips, they stood off and _mocked_ Him.
Is wine a mocker? Did Solomon know what he was talking about when he
gave it that detestable name? He added still another word and called
it a deceiver. Does it deceive and mock? It meets a young man at a
social feast, garlands itself with the graces of hospitality, sparkles
in the brilliant jewels of fashion, smiles through the faces of female
beauty, furnishes inspiration for the dance and mingles with music,
mirth and hilarity. Gently it takes the young man by the hand, leads
him down the green, flowery sward of license, filled with the rich
aroma of the wild flowers of life. When it has firmly fixed itself in
his appetite, it begins to strip him of his manhood as hail strips the
trees, and when, with will-power gone, nerves shattered, eyes bleared
and face bloated, he stands with the last vestige of manly beauty
swept from the shattered temple of the soul, it stands off and _mocks_
him. It goes to a home, tramples upon the pure unselfish love of a
wife, enthrones the shadow of a drunkard's poverty upon the
hearth-stone, makes the empty cupboard echo the wail of hungry
children for bread, with its bloody talons marks the door lintels with
the death sentence of an immortal soul, and then stands off and
_mocks_ the home. It goes to the Congress of the United States and
says: "Put upon me the harness of taxation and I'll pull you out of
the mire of national debt, and make the administration of the party in
power a financial success." Then with a government permit, it proceeds
to take out of the pockets of the people five times as much as it pays
the government; creates three-fourths of the country's crimes,
four-fifths of its pauperism, sixty per cent. of its divorces, dooms
to poverty and shame a great army of children, blights rosebuds of
beauty on cheeks of innocence, shatters oaks of manhood, leaves its
polluting taint upon all that it touches, and then stands off and
mocks the republic. Was there ever more meaning condensed into one
brief utterance than in Solomon's warning, "Wine is a mocker, strong
drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise?" Is it
wisdom in this republic to deliberately, for revenue, set in motion
causes that neutralize its progress, waste its forces and destroy the
fireside nurseries of the nation's destiny?
If I were an artist I would now place before you a picture of an ideal
American home. I would not make it the fine mansion on the avenue, nor
would I make it "the old log cabin in the lane." I would make it a
neat country home with garden of flowers, orchard of fruits, a barn
lot with bubbling spring and laughing brook. In the door of this home
I would place an American mother with the youngest of four children in
her arms; the oldest son driving his tired team to the barn, the
second one the cows to the cupping, the daughter spreading the cloth
for tea, and the head of the house sinking the iron-bound bucket in
the well for a draught of cold water when day's work for loved ones is
o'er. Approaching the door a commission appointed by Congress on
political economy lift their hats as the spokesman says: "Madam, are
you mistress of this mansion?"
"I am the wife and mother of this humble home, gentlemen; the man at
the well is my husband."
"Madam, we are commissioned by Congress to investigate the home life
of the country and would like to learn what this home is doing for the
republic."
"Come in, gentlemen, and be seated, while I call my husband. We feel
honored by your visit and would be pleased to have you take tea with
us."
The invitation is readily accepted and after a good country supper the
investigation proceeds. In answer to the question as to the relation
of the home to the welfare of the republic, the head of the house
says: "Gentlemen, we are trying to keep our home pure; it is our
purpose to make our boys patriotic American citizens and our daughters
true American women. We love God and endeavor to keep His
commandments, and this is about all I can say about our home."
"That is well so far, but may we ask what sacrifice would this home be
willing to make for the republic if its flag were in peril?"
The wife exclaims: "You alarm us by your question. Is our country in
danger?"
"Yes, madam. The combined forces of the Old World are nearing our
shores and the republic is in peril."
"Wait, gentlemen, until we talk it over."
The family retires for consultation and soon the mother appears, and
with tears in her eyes says: "Gentlemen, we've decided. Take our
oldest boy, who is eager to go. Take him to the battlefield; if he
falls in defense of his country's flag, come back, we'll kiss the
second one and tell him, 'go fill your brother's place.' Gentlemen, we
love our country next to our God and this home is pledged to this
country's honor."
I say, any country that has such mothers for its patriotism, such
guardians for its homes, should protect these homes and mothers with
all the power of police, all the majesty of law, and any evil that
attempts to destroy these homes ought not to be licensed, but should
be buried as the old Scotch woman would bury the devil--with "face
down, so the more he scratched the deeper he would go."
I am sick of the hollow sentiment, "the hand that rocks the cradle
rules the world," insofar as it relates to the drink problem. If the
hand that rocks the cradle did rule the world, there would not be two
hundred thousand rum-fiend vultures soaring over the cradle homes of
our country today. If a mother could keep her boy in the cradle she
might rule the world, but the trouble is, the boy gets too big for the
cradle and jumps out. In the cradle he's mama's child, coos if mama
coos, and laughs when mama laughs; but out of the cradle he's papa's
boy, swears if papa swears, smokes if papa smokes, drinks if papa
drinks. If papa does none of these things, then the world, ruled by
hands that don't rock cradles, steps in with licensed schools of vice
to teach him to drink.
When General Grant was President of the United States he appointed an
old colored man mail-carrier over a route in the mountains of
Virginia. One day, when in a lonely spot, two robbers faced the negro
and demanded the mail. The old man, lifting himself in his saddle
said:
"Gentlemen, I is de mail-carrier of de United States; you touch dis
darkey and you'll have de whole army of dis government on you in
twenty fo' hours."
Blessed will be the day when every mother in our land can say to the
saloon: "You touch my home and you'll have the police power of this
republic on your heels in twenty-four hours."
But, who is the government? We are told that in the early history of
this country, a country magistrate rode horseback from Maryland to
Washington to consult the government. Going to the White House he was
informed the government was not there. At the Capitol he was informed
the people are the government. He returned home, called the voters of
his county to a meeting in the courthouse and said: "Gentlemen, I have
a very important question I want to present to the government." So I
desire to talk to the government, you voters who are to decide the
policy of this republic regarding the liquor traffic.
An Irishman brought before the court for an assault upon a saloon
keeper was questioned by the judge, who said: "Mr. Dolan, what have
you to say; are you guilty or innocent of the charge made against
you?"
The Irishman replied: "By me soul, judge, I couldn't tell ye. I was
blind, stavin' drunk on the manest whiskey ye iver tasted, yer honor."
"I do not use whiskey of any kind," said the judge.
"Ye don't. Thin I don't think ye are doin' yer duty by such
constituents as meself. Ye license men to sell the stuff; ye ought to
taste the stuff ye license men to sell, thin ye would know how it
makes a gintlemen behave himself."
The judge rapped for order in the court and repeated the question,
"Are you guilty or innocent of the charge?"
"Judge, I'll state the case and let yer honor decide for me, which ye
are hired to do anyway. I was standin' by the corner of the strate on
me way home from work, when I spied the bottles in the window of the
saloon. The sight of thim bottles made me thirsty, so I wint in and
took a drink. Jist thin three other thirsty ones came in and I took a
drink with thim; thin they took a drink with me and we kept on
drinkin' till we thought we were back in auld Ireland at Donnybrook
Fair. Whenever we saw a head we struck it and I suppose this
gintlemin's head came my way. Now here's the case, judge. If I hadn't
taken the whiskey, I wouldn't a been in the row, for I'm always
paceable whin sober; if the saloon hadn't been there I wouldn't have
taken the whiskey; and if the Court hadn't licensed the saloon it
wouldn't have been there. Ye can take the case, sir."
What makes the drunkard? The drink. What supplies the drink? The
saloon. What makes the saloon? The law. Who makes the law? The
legislator. Who makes the legislator? The voter. It's the "House that
Jack built," only I will change the verbage a little. Intemperance is
the fire the devil built. Strong drink is the fuel that feeds the fire
the devil built. Distilleries, breweries and saloons are the axes that
cut the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. License laws are
molds that cast the axes, that cut the fuel that feeds the fire the
devil built. License voters and legislators are the patentees who
invented the molds that cast the axes that cut the fuel that feeds the
fire the devil built. Prohibition ballots are the sledge hammers
destined to destroy the molds that cast the axes that cut the fuel
that feeds the fire the devil built.
There is a chain of responsibility running through the drink question
which many good men fail to recognize. You know a chain is made up of
links welded together. The drunkard is only one link; he is not a
chain. When you link him to the drink then you begin the chain; the
drunkard comes from the drink. That is not all of the chain however;
the drink is linked to the saloon. If you have the saloon, you have
the drink, you have the drunkard. This is not all of the chain; you
have the license law. If you have the license law, you have the
saloon, you have the drink, you have the drunkard. There is yet
another link; the license law is linked to the license voter. The
drunkard comes from the drink, the drink comes from the saloon, the
saloon from the law, and law from the license voter. Who are the
license voters? Many of them are Christian men on their way to heaven;
but the trouble with them is the other end of the chain is going
another road. "No drunkard can enter the kingdom of heaven."
I know it is a common remark that this is a free country, and if a man
chooses to drink, let him do so and take the consequences. If one
could take alone the consequences of his sin there might be some claim
to personal liberty. But when a man's liberty involves another life
the scene changes. A young man may commit a sin in social life and by
reform be forgiven, but when that other life involved in his sin, is
seen in after years, walking the streets in painted shame, reproducing
the consequences of that man's sin, memory and conscience will combine
to give him waking hours while the world sleeps. A man may never enter
a saloon, never take a drink of intoxicating liquor, but if he votes
for the saloon his life becomes involved in the consequences of the
saloon. What are the consequences? Here is a sample. After a three
days' blizzard in one of our large cities a reformer visited a morgue
and seeing a large clothes-hamper full of dead babies he said: "What
does this mean?"
The reply came: "They were gathered from the drunkards' hovels of the
city this morning."
The visitor tells us: "Their bodies were frozen, and several arms were
sticking up out of the basket as if reaching out after life and love."
The streets of our city slums are rivers along whose shores at
midnight can be heard the death gurgle of helpless little ones, while
poverty's row is full of children cursed by inheritance, who are not
living but merely existing by scraping the moss of bare subsistence
from empty buckets in wells of poverty; and the air is freighted with
oaths and obscenities from demonized men and demi-monde women who pour
the poison of their blood into the social life of city slums.
I was both grieved and amazed when I read from the pen of a brilliant
Kentucky editor an editorial denouncing as tyrannical a sumptuary law
that "denies to a citizen the right to order his home, his meat, his
drink, his clothing, according to his conscience." I wonder if the
great editor ever considered the sumptuary law of the saloon. Every
woman who fills the holy office of wife and mother has a right to a
home. The sumptuary law of the saloon says to hundreds of thousands of
such women: "You shall not have a home; you shall live in a hovel. You
shall not order your home, your food, your drink, your clothing,
according to your conscience, but according to the best interest of
the saloon these comforts shall be ordered. You shall work all day in
the harness of oppression and when night comes instead of restful
sleep, you shall watch the stars out and wait the return of husband
and sons." What about this inhuman denial of the right to order meat,
drink, clothing and home life? Such is the sumptuary law of the
saloon.
Every child in this country has a right to an education and a chance
in the world. The saloons say to hosts of children: "You shall have
neither education nor opportunity. You shall go to the streets and
sweat-shops to earn bread. You shall live in ignorance and mid evil
environment that we may gather in the wages of your fathers." How does
this sumptuary law of the saloon compare with a sumptuary law that
forbids the sale of what is of no earthly or eternal benefit to any
one who uses it.
The same distinguished editor said: "When women gather around voting
booths on election days with sandwiches and coffee, they present an
indecent spectacle to the public." The man who goes with gun in hand
and shoots down another in defense of his country is a hero. The
mother lion or bear that defies the hunter's bullets and dies in
defense of her young we can but respect; but when woman, who has
suffered so long in silence, goes near where the welfare of her home
is at stake and out of the sore, sad sorrow of her heart appeals to
men for protection to her home from the ravages of the saloon, she is
not paid the respect given to a mother hen or bird or bear by the
advocate of the liquor traffic. When the niece of Cardinal Richelieu
was demanded by a licentious king, the Cardinal said: "Around her form
I draw the awful circle of our kingly church; set a foot within and on
thy head, aye, though it wear a crown, shall fall the curse of Rome."
Shall the crown of gold on the distiller's and brewer's brow hush into
silence the lion-hearted manhood of our republic when its sons and
daughters are demanded to feed the maw of the liquor traffic?
One of the famous pictures of the masters is of a woman bound fast to
a pillar within the tide-mark of the ocean. The waves are curling
about her feet. A ship is passing under full sail but no one seems to
see or heed the woman in peril. Birds of prey hover above her, but she
sees neither bird, nor ship, nor sea; knowing her doom is sealed, she
lifts her eyes to heaven and prays. This picture represents thousands
of women tied fast to their doom within the tide-waves of the ocean of
intemperance. The ship of state passes by, bearing its share of the
ill-gotten gains of the liquor traffic, but heeds not the moans and
cries of struggling, strangling, dying woman. Oliver Cromwell said:
"It is relative misgovernment that lashes nations into fury." The long
suffering in silence by the womanhood of this country from the
misgovernment that has heaped upon woman the woes of strong drink by
the licensed saloon, whether a tribute to the patience of woman or
not, is to the eternal shame of man, whose inhumanity to woman through
the liquor traffic is making "countless millions mourn."
To this misgovernment is due the unrest among women and the impetus
behind the equal suffrage movement today. There needs to be a saving
influence brought into our political life, and I have faith to believe
that woman's ballot will provide that influence. Having proved her
dignity in every new field of activity she has entered, I believe the
same flowers of refinement will adorn the ballot box when she holds in
her hand the sacred trust of franchise. Her life-long habit of
house-cleaning will be carried to the dirty pool of politics, where
the saloon is entrenched, and the demagogue and demijohn will be
carted away to the garbage pile of discarded rubbish.
Now and then I am asked: "What will become of the men who are engaged
in the liquor business if the country goes dry? What will become of
their families?" I answer by asking: What becomes of the men the
saloons put out of business? What becomes of their families? When
prohibition puts a man out of business, it leaves him his brain,
blood, bone, muscle, nerves and whatever manhood he has left in store,
while his long rest from active toil has given him a reserve force for
active, useful business. When the saloon puts a man out of business,
he goes out with shattered nerves, weak will, poisoned blood and so
unfitted for service no place is open for him to earn a living.
Recently a man put out of business by prohibition said to me: "This
town went dry seven years ago, and going out of the saloon business
has been such a benefit to me and to my family, I shall work and vote
to put all other saloon-keepers in this state out of business for
their own good."
On the other hand, I have in mind a man who once chained the Congress
of the United States by his eloquence. Clients clamored for his
service, and prosperity crowned his practice in the courts. In
drinking saloons he lost his clientage and in penniless poverty he
died--unwept, unhonored, unsung. The ex-saloon-keeper to whom I
referred is city marshall and very popular, while the man put out of
business by the saloon has no chance:
"Where he goes and how he fares,
Nobody knows and nobody cares."
Along with the question of what will become of the men put out of
business by prohibition, comes the question, what will the farmers do
with their corn if distilleries are closed? Less consumption of
whiskey means more consumption of cornbread and that means more corn.
Less consumption of whiskey means greater consumption of bacon, and
more bacon means more corn to feed hogs. When a liquor advocate said
to an audience of farmers: "If this state goes dry what will you
farmers do with your corn," an old, level-headed farmer shouted:
"We'll raise more hogs and less hell."
Prohibition means more of everything good, and less of everything bad;
more manhood, less meanness; more gain, less groans; more bread, less
brawls; more clothing, less cussedness; less heartaches and more
happiness. Turn saloons into bake shops and butcher stalls,
distilleries into food factories, breweries into stock pens, and the
country will be a thousandfold better off than feeding its finances by
starving its morality.
This question lifts itself head and shoulders above every other
question touching practical politics today. You nowhere read of a
nation going to destruction because of too much gold or too little
silver, too much tariff or too little tariff, but always because of
the vices of its people. The nation that bases perpetuity upon moral
character will endure with the stars, while walls thick and high as
Babylon's will not save a drunken republic.
"Vain mightiest fleets of iron found,
Vain all her conquering guns,
Unless Columbia keeps unstained
The true hearts of her sons."
Beautiful Constance of France was dressing for a court ball. While
standing before a mirror, clasping a necklace of pearls, a spark from
the fireplace caught in the folds of her gown. Absorbed in her attire,
she did not detect the danger until a blaze started. Soon, rolling on
the floor in flames, she burned to death. When the news reached the
ballroom the music hushed, the dance halted, and "Poor Constance! Poor
Constance!" went from lip to lip, but soon the music started and the
dance went on. While I am talking now the youth, beauty and sweetness
of American life is in peril from the flames that are kindled by the
licensed saloon. From an inward fire men are being consumed and homes
destroyed. Will we say, "Poor Columbia!" and keep step to the
_mocker's_ march to the nation's death; or will we put out every
distillery and brewery fire and make this in reality "the land of the
free and the home of the brave?"
In the name of all that is pure and true and vital in national life, I
plead with every lover of home and country to come to the help of the
cause that must succeed if this republic is to live. I plead with
Christians in the name of the church, bleeding at every pore because
of the curse of drink. If everyone whose name is on a church roll
would step out in line of duty on this question, very soon God would
stretch out His arm and save this republic from the liquor traffic.
God has been ready a long time; His people have not been ready to do
their part. Too many Christians are like the horse Sam Jones used to
tell of.
He said: "We have a horse in my neighborhood in Georgia, which if
hitched to a load of stone or cotton balks and won't go a step; but in
light harness in the shafts of a race cart he will pace a mile in
two-thirty. We have too many Christians who are like this horse; they
trot out to church Sunday morning, but hitch them to a prayer meeting
and they won't pull a pound."
Dr. McLeod, the stalwart Scotch preacher, on his way to a session of
his church had with him a small hunch-back member of his church, a
dwarf in size but an earnest worker. Crossing a certain stream a storm
struck the boat and the waves were sending it toward the rocks. A
boatman at one end said:
"Let the big preacher pray for us."
The helmsman at the other end said: "No, let that little fellow pray
and the big one take an oar."
Oliver Cromwell, going through a cathedral, came upon twelve silver
statues. Turning to the guide he said: "Who are these?"
The guide replied: "Those are the twelve apostles, life-size and solid
silver."
Cromwell said: "What good are they doing as silver apostles? Melt them
down into money and let them be of some service to the country."
We have too many silver statue church members who need melting down
and sending out to help save our republic from the fate of other
nations that have perished through their vices. We need more men with
moral courage to voice and vote their convictions. When the slavery
question was agitating the country Henry Clay stood for a compromise
he believed would help to solve the question. Many of his friends in
the South censured him, and sent him letters calling him a traitor. He
arose in the Senate to speak, it is said, looking pale from the effect
of the censure he was then receiving day by day. Addressing the Senate
he said: "I suppose what I shall say in this address will cost me many
dear friends." A reporter said: "He hesitated as if choked with
emotion at the thought of losing his friends." Then with the majesty
of greatness and magnetism of manner he proceeded, saying: "I am
charged with being ambitious. If I had listened to the soft
whisperings of ambition I would have stood still, gazed upon the
raging storm and let the ship of state drift on with the winds. I seek
no office at the cost of courage or conviction. Pass this bill.
Restore affection to the states of this Union and I will go back to my
Ashland home; there in its groves, on its lawns, 'mid my flocks and
herds, and in the bosom of my family, I will find a sincerity I have
not found in the public walks of life. Yes, I am ambitious, but my
ambition is that I may become the humble instrument in the hands of
God, in restoring harmony to a distracted nation, and behold the
glorious spectacle of a true, united happy and prosperous people."
There is a grandeur in the mountain that lifts itself above the
hamlets at its base, and bearing its brow to the threatening storm
clouds says to the forked lightning, "Strike me!" but grander is the
man who can stand 'mid the allurements of the world's honors and say:
"I would rather be right than President." Dare to do right and what
you do will have its reward.
"Shamgar, what's that in thy hand?"
"Only an ox-goad."
"Come dedicate it to God, and go slay those Philistines."
"David, what's that in thy hand?"
"Only a sling and a little stone from the brook."
"Come dedicate them to God, and go kill the giant."
"My little lad, what's that you have?"
"Only five loaves and two little fishes."
"Come, dedicate them to God; they'll feed thousands and you will have
baskets full left."
My brother, what's that in thy hand? Only a little American ballot.
Come dedicate it to God and home and native land, go cast it against
the licensed liquor traffic and your life will bear fruit which the
angels will gather when you have "finished your course" and "kept the
faith."
You are soon to have the local option test in your county. If I could
do one thing I could make the victory for the home overwhelming. You
know if the saloons continue they will have their victims in the
future as they have had in the past. You know too their victims will
come from the youth of your county. Those who are victims now will
soon be dead bodies, or "dead broke." The men in the saloon business
do not look to men who are drunkards now, for future use nor do they
intend to use horses or cattle or dogs, but _boys_. If I could
announce that on the evening before the vote is to be taken I would
present to the public the future victims of the saloons in this
county. If I had a prophet's eye and could select these victims, how
many homes I would enter where I would not only be an unwelcome but an
unexpected visitor. When the hour would arrive for the exhibition,
what an audience I would have! Nothing like it ever gathered in this
county; from every corner of it parents would come. When placed in
line on an elevated platform so all could see, I would speak through a
megaphone saying: "I present to you the future victims of the liquor
traffic in your county; here are the boys who will be your future
drunkards and here are the girls who will be the wives of drunkards."
I imagine some father, who thinks regulation the best policy, would
exclaim:
"There's my boy. I never thought the saloon would take my son. Don't
talk to me about regulation. Come, you fathers whose sons are not
here, and help me save my boy."
Another would press through the crowd to be sure that he was not
mistaken and say: "There's my daughter. I never dreamt she would be a
drunkard's wife. I have said prohibition won't prohibit, but I will
say it no more. Come, good fathers who love your children, and help me
save my child."
This is but the forecast for some parents in this audience. Would it
be wrong if I should say: "O God, if the saloons are to continue in
this county, if they are to have their victims in the future as in the
past, let the fathers who vote the curse on the county furnish the
victims." I do not offer up any such prayer, but I do say: "O God,
give to the home the protection of a prohibition law, and may the
victims not be anybody's boy or anybody's girl. Go out of this hall
tonight resolved you will link your faith in principle with your work.
Faith and work!"
I like that story of the mother in New England, who on a visit from
home, received a message calling her to the bedside of a daughter who
was hopelessly ill. Hurrying to the nearest railroad station she said
to the conductor: "Sir, do you connect at the junction with the train
that will take me to my sick child," at the same time handing him the
message.
"No, madam, we do not run our trains to connect with trains on that
road. The train will be gone some little time before we reach the
junction."
"Sir, are you a Christian?"
"No, madam, I'm a railroad conductor."
"Have you a Christian man with the train?"
"Yes, that man you see oiling the engine claims to be a Christian, and
I think he is; you might consult him if you like."
Going to the engineer she said: "Please read this message and tell me
if you can catch that train at the junction."
The engineer read the message and said: "I'm sorry, madam, but that
train goes fifteen minutes before we get there."
"Please sir, catch that train and let me see my daughter before she
dies."
"I would give a whole month's wages if I could," said the tender
hearted engineer.
"Then don't you think God can hold the train fifteen minutes till we
get there," said the distressed mother.
"Oh yes, God can do anything," was the reply.
"Won't you ask God to hold that train? And I will ask Him."