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EDITORIAL RAJTB LINGS
Indiana and a "Happy Hunting Ground”
Pontotoc! Don’t that sound like “Indians” and
bring up all sorts of aboriginal suggestions ? And
“Chickasaw” —the plot thickens —and you see “Red
Skins,” war paint, tomahawks, and scalps dangling
from the girdle of some vengeful warrior!
But nay! About the only Indian-like suggestion
that remained after the royal reception accorded
me in the splendid town of Pontotoc, Miss., was the
feeing that I had suddenly reached the elysian con
fines of the “Happy Hunting-ground.”
I went to Pontotoc under the auspices of the U.
D. C. ’s; and let it be written forever on tables of
stone as it is already written on my heart —these
Daughters of the Confederacy know how to look af
ter a lecturer who comes as their guest. A carriage
was waiting at the depot to carry me at once to
Chickasaw College, a fine old Presbyterian school
for girls, and President John Gough, his faculty and
students gave me such a welcome as I shall never
forget. “There are the girls, Brother Upshaw,” he
said, “talk to them just as long as you please.”
And I pleased.
The Chickasaw girls sang for me a college song
which I wrote for them a year ago, at the request
of the president, without having seen the college
or the girls. It sounded far better when they sang
it than it did when I wrote it. Then I was driven
to the public school, whose wise superintendent,
Prof. , has learned the vital truth
that there are some lessons not learned in books, and
that a man who loves children and who brings his
heart with him can sometimes leave something in
the hearts and minds of school boys and girls worth
more, perhaps in inspiration than sines and cosines
or the extraction of pure English from the jargon
of language. I came away from that school with a
cordial handclasp of the teachers and the inspiring
music of youthful gladness singing in my heart.
The crowd that night at the court house was mag
nificent, and the speech of introduction by Presi
dent John Gough was a gem of modest eloquence.
The Home Tor Reb. A. J. Hughes.
sense "and splendid physique, laid his talents on the
altar of service in his young manhood, giving all to
•his divine Master. While .his regular work in the
ministry has gone on and he has continued to re
ceive the modest compensation that his brethren have
provided for him, his big warm, generous heart
throbbed for the freedom of his people from the
curse of strong drink. Many yeaiX ago he became
the manager of the Georgia Prohibition Associa
tion. In that office he has labored arduously, con
stantly, wisely and helpfully. His everlasting en
ergy, broad information and clear judgment have
encouraged and helped the leaders in every local
option fight in Georgia. There is hardly an acre of
her soil that Hughes has not helped to make dry,
and not a soul lives on earth today that has rejoiced
at our success more than he. These services have
been rendered with a free hand and a generous
heart to his fellow men for the Lord’s sake. Often
the expenses of his office had to be met from the
modest salary of a Methodist preacher, but the
cause he served was never allowed to suffer neglect,
though his whole family were deprived of something
to make this possible. But Brother Hughes’ life is
behind him. The time for retiring is at hand, and
yet he must live and the helpless ones of his family
must be provided for. Fifty thousand Georgians
will be ready in a few years at most to lay flowers
and immortelles on his coffin. These may serve
some sentimental purpose, but they will not lighten
his burdens, solve his problems or shelter the heads
of his loved ones. When the monument to Robert
Burns was about completed his aged mother was ta
ken to the place to see it. She looked on in silence
for awhile as her mind ran back over the past with
its struggles, its poverty, and its bitter limitations,
and then said: “He asket for bread an ye geid him
a stane.” Don’t treat Hughes that way. Bouquets,
eulogiums and marble shafts may be well enough for
those who can afford them— who had plenty
Something in the local situation made my references
to education, as I discussed the things that ought to
be under “John’s Hat” strike deeper than I knew,
and an urgent invitation came to me after the lecture
to speak next day at the noon hour to'the people at
tending court. The house was packed and Editor
Franklin, of The Advance, put the crowd in great
good humor by his genial and stirring speech of pre
sentation. I talked on the meaning of education,
the meaning of appearances and the meaning of
memorials, seeking in the first to contribute some
thing to the campaign for better schools in the
country; in the second place, helping royal people
to see the wisdom of using paint on some houses
now standing, and building a new court house, a
new school house, and a few other things that would
add to the worth and beauty of a mighty fine town.
If my heart had its way, I would mention the whole
list of my new friends who were good to me at Pon
totoc, but I can not leave out Editoi* and Mrs. Her
mans, of The News, whose invitation of long stand
ing carried me there, and a new friend, W. H. Aus
tin, who shares the distinction of bing a brother in
the flesh and in the spirit of Mrs. Nannie Curtis, the
great woman orator and prohibition worker of Tex
as. This big hearted man didn’t do a thing but give
up his business and carry me on a whirlwind cam
paign for subscriptions for The Golden Age. If a
man happened not to have the money right by him,
Austin would say, “That’s all right. I’ll pay for it,
and you can pay me when it is convenient.” And
my, my, how we did roll them in! If I could find
a man just like W. H. Austin in every town I visit
methinks the “Golden Age” of the world would
soon come, for everybody would be reading The
Golden Age. Armed with a treasured invitation to
return soon for another lecture, I left Pontotoc,
thanking the Lord for my new-made friends who
had helped me to catch a new vision o's the convic
tion that “life is well forth living.”
W. D. U.
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of worldly goods while they lived, but the time and
way to honor the hero who has given his life to your
service is for you to provide for his old age. This
is the reason for the Hughes Memorial Home.
As stated elsewhere, Rev. J. L. D Hillyer is
charged with the business of collecting the money
for that purpose. See the announcements.
The Debit Sick.
On December 17, 1908, The New York Examiner
published, under above head, the following splendid
article:
That incorrigible cynic, Francis Rabelais, wrote a
couplet which long ago passed into a proverb —
The Devil was sick; the Devil a monk would be;
The Devil was well, the Devil a monk was he.
Just now that gruesome personage is very, very
sick in view of the perilous condition of one of his
favorite industries, the trade in alcoholic liquors.
Os all the devices of 'Satan for winning human souls
that of the sale of what has been well called “ liquid
damnation” is the most cunningly devised and suc
cessful. Where other vices have slain their thou
sands, the drink habit has slain its ten thousands.
In all ages, from the borderland of history to the
present hour, it has been the prolific source of mis
ery, want, destruction of character, and ruin of
body, mind and s<Tul. Governments, ancient and mod
ern, realizing its evil effects upon the lives of their
subjects, have sought to restrict the sale of intoxi
cants, and thus at least to reduce the extent of the
evil. Philanthropic men and women have combined
to check the ravages of the curse by exposing the
peril of indulgence in alcoholic beverages, even in
their milder forms, and by surrounding the innocent
and the tempted with safe-guards against the al
lurement of the fascinating wine-cup. In these later
years, more drastic efforts have been resorted to
for the suppression of the dangerous traffic, as in
excise laws and prohibitory legislation, State and
The Golden Age for January 28, 1909.
local. Good results have followed —so good that at
last the makers and sellers of intoxicating liquors
have become seriously alarmed, and, like Demetrius
the silversmith, are crying out to each other, “Sirs,
ye know that by this craft we have our wealth, and
there is danger to us not only that this branch of
business will come into disrepute, but also that it
will be utterly destroyed.”
So, in their alarm, they are turning reformers. To
save the craft they want to “elevate” it. Before
us lies a circular letter sent out by the National
Model License League, of Louisville, Kentucky, an
nouncing that a convention is to be held in that city
January 21-25 next, for the purpose of discussing
the liquor problem. Invitations have been extended
to “men who have achieved national prominence as
fighters for reform.” (We shall be glad to see that
list it will be an interesting one.) The announce
ment further says that the officers of the League are
convinced “that radical improvement in the meth
ods of dispensing alcoholic beverages must be made
if the liquor business is to remain a legalized insti
tution in a considerable number of states in the
Union,” and they express a desire “to hear the
views of those who have plans calculated to bring
about the desired improvement.”
This League, the letter also informs us, “is a na
tional organization composed of about eight hundred
distillers, brewers, wine-makers, wholesalers, retail
ers and collateral tradesmen, and is conducting a
national campaign in behalf of a model license law,
framed with the avowed object of elevating the trade
by taking the liquor question out of politics, and
eliminating from the lawless element.”
■(Hearly, the promoters of temperance reform may
“thank God and take courage.” The healing virus
is working toward the cure of this distinctive plague,
as this signal of alarm attests. Let the good work
go on.
Yes, the Devil is sick, and playing the monk. But
let it not be forgotten that he is the arch deceiver—
“a liar from the beginning, and the father of it”—
and that if the warfare upon this traffic Were to be’
relaxed, he would play monk no longer. Gift-bear
ing Greeks are to be feared. The “National Model
License League” is a device of the Adversary. It
is a sign of distress; but it is also a trap.
We have awaited, with interest, the meeting of
the “National Model License League,” at the ap
pointed time and place. The result of that meeting
confirms the diagnosis of the Examiner, and de
velops the fact that the condition of the patient has
rapidly become very much more alarming.
On January 22, after denouncing prohibition as
being insincere and fallacious, a most remarkable
set of resolutions were adopted, by unanimous vote
of the delegates, with great enthusiasm. The reso
lution in part says:
“We protest against all intemperance in the use
of alcoholic beverages and against all lawlessness
of every sort whatever in the sale of such bever
ages. We believe that intemperance is a curse, and
that every man who becomes intoxicated should be
arrested and prosecuted; that ‘treating,’ which is
responsible for so large a per cent of involuntary
intemperance, should be opposed by public senti
ment and by every member of our trade, and that
the licenses of all retail liquor dealers who violate
the law should be cancelled.” -n
It was also declared that prohibition is “merely
a costly absurdity as long as it only prohibits the
manufacture and the sale.”
In common parlance, “Now, what do you know
about that?” Were ever such remarkable resolu
tions passed, by any convention of men, since the
world began? We believe not. Think of a set of
intelligent men, whose business it is to manufacture
and sell intoxicating liquors, the use of which has
wrecked more lives and damned more souls than
any agency Satan has ever devised, protesting
against intemperance; resolving that every man
who becomes intoxicated should be arrested and
prosecuted, when they know the success of their
busines depends on just this condition; and that
“the license of all retail liquor dealers who violate
the law be cancelled.” How many men ever sold
liquor who did not violate the law ? And who knows
this so well as the men who “resolved”?
Verily, “The Devil is very sick.” We could wish
it was unto death, but not yet.
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