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A CITIZENS PROTEST
(Note. —The following article was written by
the editor of The Golden Age, Saturday morning,
June 16th, and submitted to the editor of a daily
paper in Atlanta. This editor, who is a warm per
sonal friend, argued forcibly that it would be un
wise to publish it in a secular paper, or possibly,
at all—not because it is not true in fact or in pur
pose, but because the good in it might be “evil spok
en of,” and the author charged with “political inten
tions.” But after reiterating the disclaimer in
the article, and declaring that its one single, su
preme purpose is to help men and women to see
their moral duty toward the liquor traffic, it has
been determined to let it appear in these columns.
A part of the motto of The Golden Age is: “Power
in the Life—Purity in the State,” and no life can
be powerful, and no state be pure where conscience
is trampled or speech is trammeled for the sake of
expediency or the fear of disapproval.)
To the Editor:—
Somebody ought to say it. I have wondered at
the silence, thus far, of the leaders of Georgia”
moral forces. And to be right honest, I feel like
apologizing to my conscience and my manhood for
waiting one whole week to say to the young life,
especially, of our great state, the word of protest
that should have been uttered the day after the
recent political debate in the Peachtree Audito
rium. I was not present at that debate—l was
talking at that hour to school boys and girls in
Newnan, the county where I was born. But those
who were there, agree in their testimony concerning
a scene that staggers the heart and clouds the moral
sky with gloom. Before I touch the sad delirium
of that dramatic hour, however, I insist on declaring
that nowhere in this protest is there a breath or
atom of political intent or bias. I refuse to be
drawn into a political discussion or interpreted as
the defender or defamer of any candidate. I am
no man ’s partisan in this campaign. You can vote
for James M. Smith, or Hoke Smith, or Clark
Howell, or Dick Russell, or J. H. Estill, or “the man
in the moon,” so far as this protest is concerned,
or you can favor disfranchisement, or enfranchise
ment, freight legislation, political amalgamation,
or what not—all these things are, to my thinking,
a million miles below one supreme moral issue on
which thousands of good men and women seemed to
lose their heads that night. I take that one issue,
tear it from all the rest, and focus the eyes and
thought of the world upon it. I demand that candi
dates be forgotten for the moment indeed, for all
time—until mind, heart and conscience are clear
on this point. Mix no personalities here. Look at
the scene until it burns itself into your being.
What are the facts? One of the candidates was
making his rejoinder when suddenly he declared
that since the question was forced upon him, he
would tell where his profits from a certain bar
room had gone—this money had bought books for
the poor children of Atlanta! Then the awful
scene began. Thousands sprang to their feet and
shouted like mad. Men beat their canes upon the
defenceless floor, or tossed their hats high in the
air! And women—fair women—Heaven save the
mark! women who are wives and mothers, waved
their handkerchiefs and screamed in their wild de
lirium of approving joy!
“Hide your faces, holy angels—
Hide, 0 Christ, thy pain-marred face!
Earth, God’s footstool is no longer,
But a vast, vile market place.”
And, listen: That dramatic climax of enthusiasm
which reporters were “unable to describe,” utter
ed one voice, and that voice was this: every man
who stamped his feet and shouted, and every woman
who forgot herself and waved her handkerchief in
the blinding glare of that awful moment, said:
The Golden Age for June 21, 1906.
By W. D. UPSHAW
“Yes, yes! it is right—it is gloriously right to own
a saloon, if you use the profits to buy books for
the poor children of Atlanta!”
Hear me, good people of Georgia—this fair city,
this great commonwealth will not recover from the
blighting spirit of that moment in full fifty years.
Let me not be charged with hardness or harshness
now. I speak in tenderness, in sorrow, in tears!
My charge is that good men and women sometimes
make fearful mistakes, and that was a moral mis
take from which generations will not recover. Let
me not be charged with forgetting the prominence,
the calibre, and the character of the men and women
who took part in that joyous pandemonium. 1
cannot forget. Some of the warmest personal
friends I have in Georgia wore there, and helped
swell the tides of enthusiasm that beat like a storm
tossed ocean “upon the rock-bound shore.”
Dr. Landrum and Bishop Candler as Saloon
Keepers.
But this I know— that if one man can become
a voluntary stockholder in a saloon, whether on
Peachtree or Decatur street, and make the business
right by using the proceeds to buy books for poor
children, then W. W. Landrum and Warren A.
Candler, who were chums in their youth, and are
bosom friends to-day, can form a partnership and
open a saloon, run it themselves, or hire somebody
else to run it, and divide the profits equally be
tween poor but worthy boys at their respective alma
maters, Mercer at Macon and Emory at Oxford.
There is no d fference. If the womanhood of Atlanta
who thoughtlessly endorsed such a course, were right,
then Dr. L. G. Broughton, whose Tabernacle insti
tutions of mercy bend over the suffering and needy
of this city,
“Like sweet angels bending o’er
The sorrows of earth’s sin-stricken shore,”
then he, I declare to you, can have a saloon in
connection with his Tabernacle Dormitory for Young
Ladies, or his Baraca Hall for Young Men, and use
the proceeds to further the work of his numerous
charities—buying, for instance, books for the boys
and girls who attend the night school at the Taber
nacle. 1
Horror of horrors! But there is no difference.
No sane man or woman can claim that there is.
And bringing it closer home, if I may be pardon
ed for being personal—if those men and women who
forgot themselves, and shouted and waved their
approval, were right, then I can deliberately take
stock in a saloon, and justify my connection with
it by using the proceeds to educate half a hundred
brave, struggling girls, to whom I have been trying
to be a. brother, and who could not have been in
school without some brother’s helping hand. There
is no d fference.
And yet, if I were to do such a thing, you know
and I know, that every man and woman who waved
hats and handkerchiefs on that night, would hold
up their hands in holy horror, and declare that the
little influence I may have had for good, had sunk
forever in the cess-pool of my charity saloon. I
would not even be a welcome guest in the homes
of those good people who forgot themselves and
shouted and waved their endorsement of a Charity
Bar-room!
Again, I declare, there is no difference. A jury of
earth may hesitate and waver in its decision, but
a jury from the skies brings in the verdict: “God
is no respecter of persons.”
Hear my last word; I am not discussing, and
will not discuss any candidate for governor in this
or any other article. I am not a politician—but 1
hope I am a Christian citizen, and I have written
this protest to arrest the attention of thousands
who argue all over Georgia and America that the
saloon is an “inevitable and necessary evil,” and
that their horrible existence is justified if the pro-
Non-Partisan Discussion
of a Great Moral Issue
ceeds be used to reduce taxation, or build up edu
cation and benevolence. Teach the children of
America that fatal doctrine, and it will be the
open door to an atrophied conscience on the allow
ing of any and every loathsome evil for the sake
of the money there is in it. I am thankful for one
thing, and that is, that the children over whose
blood-bought opportunity for an education this ap
proving pandemonium reigned, were not present to
receive the deadening and darkening poison in their
young minds and hearts.
Pardon one more personal word. I would not tell
the whole truth if I did not confess that in writing
this protest this morning, my own heart has suffer
ed. Doubtless I would have written it before, but
for the cringing fear that I would be misunderstood,
and charged with “dabbling in politics.” I am not.
No candidate for governor or constable, is seen or
thought of in these sorrowful, but definite words.
I have felt that if T should let that dangerous hour
pass into history without speaking in behalf of the
youth I love so well, I would be a traitor to my
heart, and ashamed evermore to sleep with mv
conscience. Friends may criticise, and thousands
may desert, but I will stand alone, if need be, in the
glad consciousness that T am right. Forget men
and measures, and remember that the American
Saloon is an unmitigated iniquity—that it is the
cause of debauchery, the helper of murder, the
trysting-place of anarchy, the hot-bed of crime, the
breeder of infidelity, the companion of the brothel,
the gateway of hell!
And whether you own it, run it, vote for it, ad
vertise it in yonr paper, receive rent or profits
from it in any form, you befriend and foster the
saloon while Satan smiles and millions of victims
mourn.
Vote for any man or platform you please, from
bailiff to president, but in God’s name do not let
“fair women and brave men” teach the boys and
girls of Atlanta, of Georgia, or of this sinning,
staggering world, that it is right to turn thousands
towards debauchery, death and hell in order that
they may learn to read and spell.
The Hon. Walter R. Brown issued an invitation
to all Baptist ministers of Fulton countv to be pres
ent last Friday at an outing to be on his New Ca
naan Plantation. Quite a party of ministers ac
cepted, and the day was most delightfully spent.
The South Georgia Epworth league Conference
has closed a meeting at Thomasville. Ga. The ses
sion was a most interesting one. there being ad
dresses from returned missionaries and distinguish
ed Epworth League workers.
B
The Baptist State Mission Board has elected Rev.
J. J. Bennett, of Griffin. Ga.. to succeed Rev. S. Y.
Jameson as corresponding secretary of the Board.
The Four-Leaved Clover.
“Why is the four-leafed clover more lucky than the
three?”
I questioned Master Greedy; and thus he answered
me:
“It’s because the four-leafed clover so crafty is and
bold,
It has an extra hand, sir, to grasp the sunshine
gold.”
“Why is the four-leafed clover more lucky than the
three?”
I questioned Master Generous, and thus he answered
me:
“It’s because the four-leafed clover so kindly is and
gay,
It has an extra hand, sir, to give its gold awav!”
—Amos R. Wells, in Christian Observer.
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