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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. 7