The Republican journal., 1884-10-23
A Little Talk With John.
BY MATTE ECoB HAMILTON.

BY MATTE ECOB HAMILTON.
Eve been told, John. that the saOOn-keepers
are a class that can seldom be reached by tenn
perance workers; that the business is so hard
nlnS that they who once engage in it forever
after turn deaf ear to those who would point
to better life. But they say that you are an
exception, John; that you are kind hearted,
honest, and keep respectable place. | am led
to believe that you are kind hearted, for as |
met you on the street the other day and noticed
your frank, pleasant face, and saw how gently
you helped up the crying child that had fallen
on the icy pavement, [ concluded there was
great deal of good in you yet, John. And now
let's talk it over and try and find out just how
much goodness you have and if there is not
some danger of your losing your stock. They
say you have given as much to the poor, this
winter as any man, and perhaps more That
was good in you John, and | know you feel
better for it, but when you were giving out the
dollars and cents, did you stop to think where
that money came from? That if C's dollars had
not gone into your till his wife would not now
be clothed in rags and his children crying for
bread? That if you had not taken AS last ''bt"
Tor drink he might have slept in a decent bed
instead Of taking refuge in ''calaboose'?
lhat the last money you gave the poor relief
fund.- was the money Tom meant to have spent
for Johnny's shoes but which was spent at your
bar instead? You took load of wood to the
widow b. 1t was nicely split. too, John. That
was great kindness to the poor woman. Her
husband died last spring of delirum tremens.
But he DIDN'T get 1t at my bar" you say, Il
don't sell to drunkards." That's true, John.
The last year of his life he was such wreck
you would not let him put his foot in your door.
But you know when you first set up shop, John,
that he was your best customer. Who helped
make him drunkard, John? And how can
you always know that you are not selling to
drunkards? DO you remember that handsome
young fellow, stranger to you, who came in
to your saloon last winter, and called for flask
of brandy. He paid for it too, like a gentle
man. and he wore good clothes. yet he was Il
drunkard John, and after he had paid for the
liquor he had just enough money left to take
him to Z. where he went straight to room in
hotel and after drinking the last drop in the
bottle, blew out his brains. The papers We're
full Of it then, John, but you nor the public
never knew before where he got his liquor. It's
forgotten now by the world. No one bames
you. John; you did not know he would do that
dreadful act. That's it, John. It's the awful
uncertainty of the business. There are more
drunkardS who wear good clothes than we
dream of. They say you are honest, John; that
you pay your debts and never defraud any man.
Is that 50! Did you pay + for the loss of his
time and the loss of his place when he went on
that weeks debauch The liquor that did that
work was bought at your bar Did you pay the
doctors bill when F's horses ran away with
their drunken driver and almost killed him?
Remember he got his liquor at your saloon.
And what do you give in return for the nckels
and dimes that are steadily flowing into your
TIL: good honest bread or clothing or anything
that will better your brother man physically or
mentally: | wish you did, John. | wish you
were back on that little farm where you
worked 50 hard and though you earned not
quite so much money. yet it was good clean
money. YOU used to think of those days John,
and sigh for their return when your last Gus
toner had gone, and You had put down the
days earnings of your bar and you We're turn
ing out the lights, in the mionight quiet, still
small voice would whisper in your ear, and
you would almost feel hand lpon your shou-
der pointing you back to the Letter life, when
YOU We're a man. doing mans honest work of
earning mans honest money, pointing still
backward to your innocent boyhood in the old
home by your mothers side, dreaming bright
dreams of the future.
You little thought then you would ever keep
a saloon. 1t would point you to your innocent
children who love YOU, but whom one day will
blush because their father was a saloon keeper.
Ii would point you to that mound strewn
grave yard where before many years place
will be found fer you. You acknowledge. with
sigh that you are growing old, John. Every
day YOU notice Il few more gray hairs. Soon
the last glass will be sold, the last customer 90
out and your last bar account be rendered.
What then will be the sum total Of your life
work. Why, for so many years | have done
nothing but sell liquors that has degraded and
pauperized my fellow men, sending some to IN
sanity, others to suicide and perchance to the
galoWs. For this have received thousands of
dollars wrung from the wages that would have
clothed the naked and fed the hungry! They
say that you keep respectable place. Lets
see, John. Is it 50 respectable that sou ever
inv ite your wife and children in or any of your
lady acquaintauces? Don't you sometimes
blush, Yourself, John, over some things that
occur at your bar? And why do you have
those heavy screens At your windows by night
and day. There's something wrong there John,