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The Whiskey Traffic and Our Duty
It is not necessary in this day and time to dis
cuss the evils incident to the use and traffic in
strong drink. That conscience must be seared in
deed which does not keenly feel and bodily con
demn the sin of intemperance, while with a tender
ness akin to divine pity it commiserates the unfor
tunate victim. A man must have a low estimate of
his fellowman, if he does not sadly appreciate the
great loss in manhood brought about by this sinful
indulgence. A neighbor must have a poor regard for
his neighbor, who does not deplore the blasted
hopes, the broken hearts and blighted lives and des
ecrated homes and the ruined souls that mark the
sale and consumption of strong drink. He indeed
has a very perverted idea of individual, community,
state and national economy, who does not see the
immense waste of money and the untold destruc
tion of property and the fearful paralysis of pro
ductive power, which come upon the individual,
community, state and nation that patronizes or
encourages or allows or legalizes the traffic in the
destructive beverage. The few days’ riot in the
city of Atlanta—the natural offspring of the in
cestuous dive on Decatur street as mother, and of
the lecherous, lustful barroom on Peachtree and
Whitehall as father—cost the city and the state
more than they can recover from the licenses of
these places in five years.
The Logic of Money.
If figures have any meaning, if money is any con
sideration, if the financial feature can attract any
attention and add to the argument, consider this
fact: The four years of bloody war left the na
tion with a debt of $2,800,000,000, while the liquor
bill in the United States for four years is $7,293,-
816,296. The revenue from the liquor traffic is
$111,901,093 annually, while the drink bill, $1,823,-
204,074 —that is, we invest one dollar and ge
back in revenue not quite seven cents.
But this does not represent the money loss by
any means—there is the destruction of labor, the
reduction of the wage-earning capacity, and the
neglect and suspension of business, to say nothing
of the immense cost of additional police force and
court expenses and the chaingang charges, these
simply stagger the imagination with the magnitude,
the inestimable loss of money to the individual, the
family and the nation.
To bring it home to us, see how common farm
hands and unskilled labor are unfitted for service
and lose time, how factory operatives bungle their
work and are dismissed, how dissipated clerks
lose their positions, how mechanics are turned away
from their jobs, how lawyers who drink are aban
doned by their clients and physicians are rejected
by their patients, and how teachers are turned away
from the school room, and how business failures,
bankruptcies, financial disasters and railroad
wrecks multiply. Oftentimes a fifteen cent drink
causes a $50,000 wreck and damage suits to the
amount of $200,000. Why, the loss from the cost
of the drink is not a bagatelle compared to the
loss that is entailed by the failure of the laborer
who is made incompetent by the use of the bever
age. A man would argue himself fit for the lunatic
asylum who would try to prove that the traffic is
/profitable to the individual who drinks, or to the
city that licenses it, or to a people that allows it,
or to a government that legalizes it.
Compared to this evil, any other evil is as an
evening zephyr compared to a desolating gulf-storm
on the coasts, as a harmless rivulet meandering
through the meadow compared to the wild flood
rushing down the valley of the Connemaugh, or as
a vanishing spark from a boy’s Christmas cracker
compared to the outburst of the Vesuvius volca
no.
The Logic of Morals.
If a man proves himself an imbecile, who tries
to convince the public that it is profitable, he shows
a badly misguided judgment, if not the spirit of
a demon, when he attempts to defend the traffic
on the grounds that it contributes to the social bet-
By G. A. NUNNALLY.
The Golden. Age for October 18, 1906.
terment and moral improvement of the community.
Arson and assassination, beggary and beastliness,
death and degradation, divorce and disgrace, shame
and sorrow, theft and treachery, riot and rape are
passed over the counters where the miserable stuff
is sold. It comes at the same fearful cost and does
the same deadly work whether it be sold in the
glittering bar or in the dirty dive, in the open sa
loon or in the chartered dispensary, whether it be
owned and manipulated in the palatial hotel and
mammoth store, or mixed and sold by the lone
dealer in his dirty hole in the wall on the dark al
ley of the crowded city—it is all the same. To con
done the one and to condemn the other is to make
a distinction without a difference and to differen
tiate between evils that are identical.
The Duty of The Hour.
Such being the evil, the suppression of the traf
fic is the main and only problem. To its solution
the best thought of every man and woman, of every
scientist and statesman, of every economist and
moralist, of every sinner and Christian should be
given. Every man who feels an interest in his fel
lowman, every laborer and capitalist who has any
desire for individual or general prosperity, every
citizen who loves his country and hopes for a good
government, and every Christian who serves his
Lord and Master and would have this world be
come the kingdom of our God, should conspire and
concentrate and combine and co-operate in all
movements that look to the suppression of the traf
fic. It seems useless to appeal to political parties
or to seek the influence and power of political as
pirants, who from time immemorial and on various
occasions, have refused or declined, have confused
or compromised, have misled or betrayed, the forces
that were engaged in a prohibitory effort. As
Christians, as followers of the Lord Jesus Christ
and as lovers of our fellowman, we must place
this issue above any vitiated appetite, above any
personal interests and far above all political af
filiations and by example and entreaty, by work and
watchfulness, and by voice and vote, refuse all
compromise with the evil. Be not satisfied with the
high-licensed saloon, nor with the well-guarded and
so-called decent bar, nor with the thwarted and
defeated local option, nor with the deceitful and
destructive dispensary, but demand unceasingly and
unflinchingly, everywhere and by all honorable
means, its utter and complete and everlasting prohi
bition. As Christians, we cannot do less and be help
ful and beneficent to our neighbor as the good Sa
maritan that we profess to be, and be true to our
mission as adherents to the simple truth of the Bible
which we claim to be the Word of God, and faithful
and loyal to our Master, “whose we are and whom
we serve,” and who loved us and who, by prayer and
patience, by poverty and peril, by shame and sorrow,
by life and death, proved that he loved us and to
seal that love, “gave himself for us” in the suffer
ings of Calvary and in the blood of the cross.
Beyond Human Control.
The Youth’s Companion tells of children who
were overheard discussing “what we’ll do when
we get big.” One wanted to be a milkman and
ride round in a wagon. The second wanted to be
the man to ride on the freight cars and “make the
round things go.” The third, also a boy, could
not decide whether to be a minister or a grocer.
The fourth child, a girl of eleven, did not care to
tell what she would do. “Aw, yur!” contemp
tuously cried he for whom the ministry and confec
tionery had equal attractions. “Yur want to get
married!” he said, with the traditional blindness
of his sex. When the boys had run off, the girl’s
ambition was confided to her favorite aunt. “I
wouldn’t tell before them,” she said, scornfully.
“They wouldn’t understand. But, aunty, I want
to be a justice of the supreme court, and”—her
voice became solemn—.“beyond human control.”
Nature’s Heart.
Oh, where is nature’s heart? I spent long hours
In searching for this treasure, rich and rare.
I wander’d ’mid opening buds and ffow’rs,
As they exhaled their sweetness to the air.
I wander’d through fields, when, clad in beauty,
They waved the tassels of the ripening corn.
Follow’d the Reaper, as he gathered booty
Ere the dark, stormy winter days should dawn.
In cool woodland shades ’neath bough and bracken,
Close by some brook, wherein the minnows play,
I’ve thought to find poor Nature’s heart forsaken,
And striving here to dream its life away.
Here in this dell, listening to the brook song,
Wooing the balmy breezes, soft and sweet,
My quest should end. Why need I now prolong
My search for weary Nature’s heart’s retreat?
Birds are singing, woods and uplands teeming,
Field and meadow throbbing, atbrill with joy;
Over all the merry sunshine streaming,
’Tis Nature’s Heart, in all this glad employ.
Look not for Nature’s Heart, sleeping, dreaming,
’Tis like the spirit of the Triune three—■
Night or day, that heart is never seeming,
But ever bringing joy and life to me.
Wm. Laurie Hill.
New Name for Twilight.
Kenneth is five years old, and attends Sunday
school. He is very much interested in what he
hears, as the following story will prove:
He went with his auntie to be fitted to a new pair
of shoes. It was late in the afternoon, and as they
waited for the salesman, Kenneth noticed that the
street lamps were being lighted outside.
“Why, Aunt Emily,” he exclaimed, “is it
dark ? ’ ’
“Oh, not very!” she replied.
“Oh, I see,” said Kenneth, with a comprehend
ing nod, “hike.”
“What did you say?” asked Aunt Emily.
“Why, luke,” repeated Kenneth, surprised that
she had not understood.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired his
aunt, still mystified.
“Why, you know what luke means; it’s middling,
luke dark, you know, like luke warn?, not real dark
nor real light.”—Watchman.
She Got Him.
The four-year-old daughter of a clergymai? was
ailing one night and was put to bed early. As her
mother was about to leave her, she called her back.
“Mamma,” she said, “I want to see my papa.”
“No, dear,” her mother replied, “your papa is
busy and must not be disturbed.”
“But, mamma,” the child persisted, “I want to
see my papa.”
As before, the mother replied: “No, your papa
must not be disturbed.”
But the little one came back with a clincher:
“Mamma,” she declared solemnly, “I am a sick
woman, and I want to see my minister.”—Every
body ’s.
Too Busy to Grow.
A small office boy, who had worked in the same
position for two years on a salary of $3 a week,
finally plucked up enough courage to ask for an in
crease in wages.
“How much more would you like to have?” in
quired his employer.
“Well,” answered the lad, “I don’t think $2
more a week would be too much.”
“Well, yw seem to me a rather small boy to
be earning $5 a week,” remarked his employer.
“I suppose I do. I know I’m small for my
age,” the boy explained, “but to tell you the truth,
since I’ve been here I haven’t had time to grow.”
He got the raise.—James H. Lambert, in St.
Nicholas.
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