Watch Yourself Go By

A >> Al. G. Field >> Watch Yourself Go By

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"Why, Alfred, I am again surprised. You travel the world over."

"Yes, but Uncle, it's the narrowest world you ever dreamed of. A crowd's
no company. The loneliest moments I pass are when in the largest
gatherings. I was cut out for a showman, but I ought to be a stationary
one. If you and father and all my other relatives had only headed me for
the law, perhaps I'd be a different man."

"Alfred, what was to be could not be changed. You have everything to be
thankful for and little to regret. You have a faithful helpmate in your
wife. Your father is a great consolation to you. He tells me of the
lovely traits of your character. If I had my children around me as he
has, if I could live in their love as he does, I would sacrifice all
else in this world."

"Why, Uncle Tom, aren't you satisfied with your calling?"

"If you refer to the ministry, I answer 'No.' The salaries of the
ministers of this country do not average five hundred dollars a year.
And yet, as a class, they are the best educated the hardest working,
poorest paid, underfed profession I know of. With less culture, less
mental power, there are men in all walks of life that are paid three
times the salary even our most eloquent and useful ministers receive.
And yet, no matter how great the good a minister may have accomplished,
if he makes the slightest allusion to the matter of money, it discredits
him. That I have worn the livery of Christ all my days will buoy me up,
and that I am proud of my service in the army of the Lord lends
happiness. I have endeavored to maintain the character I have assumed in
meekness and sincerity. But the character of a minister is the most
assailable of that of any of the professions. The slightest slip, the
one misstep, and he is lost. Like Samson, shorn of his hair, he is a
poor, feeble, faltering creature, the pity of his friends, the derision
of the public."

"Well, Uncle Tom, yours is not the only profession that's held back by
popular prejudices. It's one of the peculiarities of the littleness of
human nature. It's a sure sign of a dwarfed mind to have your actions
criticized and misconstrued. There's not a great calamity, a pestilence,
a plague, a drought or a famine, a Galveston disaster, a Johnstown
flood, a poor family's poverty, that the theatrical profession are not
appealed to first and are first to respond. But if a theatrical man
interests himself in public affairs his motives are impugned."

"I am surprised at this, Alfred. It sounds so very much like the
restrictions placed upon ministers. Does it hamper you in your affairs?"

"Not in the least. That is, not now. There was a time when I was younger
that I felt the sting pretty keenly. Now it has a different effect. You
remember Bill Jones in Brownsville? He had a boy named Bill. Young Bill
was under discussion by the cracker barrel committee in Oliver Baldwin's
grocery. Andy Smith had just remarked that 'Bill Jones's boy is a durned
fool; he don't know nuthin'; he don't know enough to gether greens; he
don't know enough to slop hogs.' Just then he noticed the boy's father
sitting behind the stove. Old Bill had overheard Andy's talk. Andy
endeavored to square himself. In an apologetic tone he said: 'But,
taint' your fault, Bill; tain't your fault; ye ain't to blame. You
learnt him all you know.' You can't tell anything about human nature and
the better plan is to make yourself as agreeable to those you respect
and love and to keep others at arm's length. When you feel that folks
have any objections to you, beat them to it. They soon come over."

"Do you remember a boy that was raised in Brownsville, worked in
Snowden's Machine Shop? Do you remember he worked his way up? He entered
the ministry. He became a very good preacher, quite eloquent. There was
a movement inaugurated by some of his boyhood friends to have him
brought to Brownsville to fill the pulpit of a church. The women of
taste were sort of running things. The Brownsville boy who had become a
preacher was turned down. Do you remember why? Well, his parents were
very humble people. The taste of many of the members revolted at the
idea of the pulpit of the church being filled by one whose father worked
around the town in his shirt sleeves. Do you remember the trade of his
father?"

"No, I have forgotten."

"Well, he was a carpenter." The uncle did not perceive the application
at once. After a moment he nodded his head a half dozen times, very
slowly as he framed the question: "What became of--?"

"He is living in retirement with his children in Houston, Texas. He
became a noted man in the ministry of that state. He never visited his
old home after the slight put upon him by the taste of a part of the
congregation."

"Well, Alfred, your experience has been of great value to you. You have
met all manner of people."

"Yes, and in all walks of life. And my estimate of them is, that human
nature is about the same in all men, although some of them possess the
faculty to a greater degree than others of concealing it. The first
President I ever met to talk to was General Grant. I had always read of
him as the Silent Man of Destiny; but he did about all the talking for
all those about him the few moments I was in his presence."

"I met Ben Harrison, but that was before he was President. It was during
a political campaign in Indiana. He seemed to me to be about as cool and
level-headed a man as I ever met. I stood beside him on a car platform.
In Petersburg, Va., after he was elected President, he came out of his
private car in response to the cheers of the crowd. I feel sure he
intended to make a short speech, as the multitude seemed to demand it.
The President was bowing his acknowledgments to the large gathering,
when someone, with that bad taste that always crops out at the most
inopportune moment, yelled 'Hurrah for Cleveland.' A great many others,
with bad taste, laughed. Harrison flushed to his temples, bowed and
backed into the car.

"I met Cleveland twice. Once in that old club in Buffalo, N. Y.
Cleveland was sheriff at that time. He was in the prime of manhood,
sociable and full of animation. He did not talk much but was a good
listener and a hearty laugher at the stories George Bleinstein related.
I met him again after he was out of the Presidential chair. His health
was shattered. He was endeavoring to recuperate in that most sensible
way, hunting and fishing. His limbs were in such condition he could not
endure the exercise and did not get the benefit he anticipated from the
outdoor life.

"I met Rutherford B. Hayes many times while he was Governor of the State
of Ohio, and once after he became President. He was the most democratic
of men, plain and approachable.

"Of all the Presidents I have had the good fortune to meet McKinley was
the most lovable to me, probably because I was better acquainted with
him than the others. Mrs. McKinley and her sister owned the Opera House
in Canton, Ohio. Mrs. McKinley's brother, Mr. Barber, was the manager
for them. I met McKinley in Columbus, Canton and Washington. He was
always the same. He never mentioned politics at any time I was in his
presence; always talked upon commonplace subjects, inquiring after
friends or conditions of business over the country. McKinley had the
good taste to remember his friends.

"It was the custom of the President and his wife, while in Washington,
to call up the home of Mr. Barber in Canton, on the long distance
telephone daily. Alfred happened in Canton on New Year's day. He wished
the President a Happy New Year over the phone. The President, in turn,
invited him to call at the White House when visiting Washington. Alfred,
after the phone was hung up, remarked to Barber: 'The President is too
busy with politicians to bother with minstrels.' Barber afterwards
repeated Alfred's remark to the President. Later, Alfred visited
Washington. The President sent a messenger inviting him to call at the
White House, nor did Alfred have long to wait when his card was sent in.
After a hearty handshake the President invited him to have a cigar. The
first question he asked was as to the health of an old Columbus
liveryman--Brice Custer--a Democrat at that.

"The most interesting near-President I ever met was your old
fellow-townsman, James G. Blaine."

"Oh, I knew Blaine well as a boy," Uncle Tom said. "I never met him
after he left Brownsville. Where did you meet him?"

"I visited Augusta, Me., with my minstrels. I sent a messenger inviting
him to attend the entertainment. In reply he invited me to call at his
residence. To my surprise he seemed to be familiar with my career. He
inquired after many of the older men of Brownsville, particularly John
Snowden, Bobby Rodgers and others. He could not remember my father but
he remembered grandfather, Uncle William and Uncle Joe's father. His
memory as to the older inhabitants of the town was most remarkable. He
gave me much information as to the early history of Brownsville. He
advised when he regained his health he intended visiting the valley
again, renewing old friendships. The cheeks of the famous American were
sallow and flabby. His general appearance was that of one who was
desperately struggling to fight off the finish. Although he talked
hopefully of the future and outlined his precautions for guarding his
health, it was not long afterwards until he 'crossed the bar.'

"Blaine was a wonderful man. Do you remember the last speech he made at
his old home? It was in the midst of a heated political campaign.
Several noted orators accompanied him. The issues of the campaign were
discussed by the speakers who preceded him. Blaine was introduced; the
applause was long-continued. Speaking slowly at first, with distinct
enunciation, he said:

"'Ladies and Gentlemen, Neighbors, Friends, All: I am here tonight in
the interests of that great political party of which I have the honor to
be a member. I came here to make a political speech. I came here to
discuss the questions in which this section is so vitally interested. I
see many familiar faces. I see many in front of me tonight who have
always held views opposed to mine, politically; but our opinions on
public questions have never marred our friendships and never will
insofar as I am concerned. I always hope to retain the respect and
good-will you bear me, evidenced by your presence here tonight.'

"'When I gaze around me, I note the silver tops of many men whose hair
was as black as the raven's wing when we trod these old hills together.
I note cheeks even whiter now than the hair that shades them--cheeks
then flushed with the bloom that only comes to youth. I know many of you
here tonight expect me to discuss the issues of the day. I hope you will
excuse me when I inform you I cannot bring myself to do it, that word of
mine might cause pain to one friend--that would destroy all the pleasure
that has come to me from this meeting of old friends here tonight--it is
a pleasant feeling to the wanderer that he is again in the home of his
fathers, in the home of his friends.'

"He continued relating incidents of his boyhood. I venture to say it was
the most effective political speech ever delivered and not a word of
politics in it."

"Alfred, your experiences are valuable, and I believe you are filling
the mission God intended you for. I feel when I talk to you my little
world growing smaller. I have lived in a little world all my life. The
only information I get of the big world comes through well-meaning, but
often prejudiced, persons. I do not know man as I should. I believe to
know God you must know man. Alfred, I am told intemperance is the curse
of the theatrical profession. Are many of your people drunkards?"

"Very few of them. We do not tolerate a drunkard one day. It would be an
insult to permit a drunkard to go before an audience. Theatrical people
with their peculiar temperaments and manner of life, are easily led
astray but I do not believe, comparatively speaking, there is nearly so
much intemperance among theatrical people as some other professions."

"How do you manage the members of your company?"

"We endeavor to dissuade them from all practices that will interfere
with their duties. We take a great deal of pains with the younger ones;
particularly as to the drink habit; do all we can with advice, and
endeavor in every way to have them lead sober, moral lives. The general
manager of one of the largest railway systems in this country, after
twenty-five years' experience, has arrived at this conclusion. 'Do all
possible to rescue the man starting in on a drinking life. Bump the old
soak and bump him hard; bump him quick. Never temporize with a man who
has broken his promise as to the liquor habit. If he gets bumped hard,
it will either cure him or cause him to drink himself to death. In
either way society is the better off.'"

"What a load of sin the saloonkeeper carries, the man that sells the
drunkard rum. If all the saloons could be closed--Uncle Tom, have you
given the subject, or this sin, or whatever you may term it, serious
study? The saloonkeeper may have it within his power to curtail, to
lessen the evil effects of drunkenness, but it's high time the fellow on
the other side of the bar came in for his share of the censure. Don't
you know that if every saloon in the land was closed, under existing
conditions, drunkenness and the increased consumption of whisky would go
on. Statistics bear this out."

"Well, what is your remedy for the evil, Alfred?"

"I have no remedy. I have a safeguard--high license, the sale of whisky
placed in the hands of reputable men."

"But, Alfred, there are no reputable men in the whisky business."

"Uncle Tom, you admitted a few moments ago you lived in a little world,
you did not know men. I am not entering upon a defense of the
saloonkeeper, but human nature, is human nature. Bad taste is bad taste.
It's bad taste for a minister of the gospel to make statements that can
be controverted so readily that his veracity is made questionable. If I
were a minister, I would inform myself, visit the saloons. I would go
into the Neil House, the Chittenden, the lowest dives in the city; not
as a sneak or a spy, but in my duty, my profession, my calling as a
preacher, as a man with the determination to do good unto my fellow
men. I would go as He, in whose footsteps preachers profess to follow,
did. I would shake hands with the business man, the bum. I'd pass them
my card or have someone introduce me. I'd invite them to visit my
church. I'd make them feel I was a friend, not an enemy. I would
endeavor to instill into their lives the truth. I'd preach that God is
love. I would make myself a welcome visitor everywhere I went. The
presence of a good man with a desire to do good has a beneficial effect
upon men in every walk of life, in church or saloon.

"Uncle Thomas, if the clergy do not realize it, they should. They are
widening a breach, a chasm between the people and the church, that will
be difficult to bridge over. They are positively bringing their calling
into disrepute. Let nothing be done through strife or vain glory but in
lowliness of mind, is a divine injunction they seem to have forgotten."

"Alfred, I am surprised at your arguments. I want to ask you: Did you
ever know an honest saloonkeeper, an honest man who made or sold
whisky?"

"There are thousands of them. Thomas Daly, one of the largest distillers
in this country, Belle Vernon, Fayette County, Penn., is a man who
stands as high morally as any in his section.

"Martin Casey, who lately passed away in Ft. Worth, Texas, a wholesale
dealer in liquors, was a friend of mine for thirty years. He was a
friend of your nephews, Jim and Clarke. He was beloved in the community
where he lived and died. No charity, no public or private work for the
betterment of mankind, was without his support. The widow and orphan did
not appeal to him without receiving. In fact, it was not necessary for
the poor to appeal to Martin Casey. His friendship would have honored
any man.

"You will say these men were too far away. Tom Swift, a saloonkeeper,
stood as high among those who were intimate with him as any man in this
city. Joe Hirsch is another, and there are hundreds of others."

"Then, Alfred, you are against temperance?"

"No, sir. I'm for temperance. If there is anything I can do to
ameliorate or decrease the evil effects of intemperance, I will
willingly take my place in the ranks and add my strength to the fight.
Ninety men of a hundred are in sympathy with those who are battling for
the alleviation of the evils of intemperance. But there are not ten men
in a hundred that have faith in the means employed. The only practical
temperance work that has come under my observation was that of Father
Matthews and Francis Murphy."

"Well, Alfred, what do you think of Sam Jones, and Billy Sunday?"

"Sam Jones is dead and nearly forgotten. As to Billy Sunday, I have made
it a rule not to talk about a business competitor. Talk is advertising.
Billy Sunday is running a show. It's bigger than mine, but it's not as
good because it's not an honest show. It's run under the guise of
religion. Religion, as I understand it, is your life work from day to
day and not the inspiration or the evolution of a week, a month or a
year. Billy Sunday has four or five advance agents, or promoters. I
employ only two. Billy Sunday has promoters the slickest in the
business: men who have had the experience of years in all sorts of
schemes. His show is a sad reflection upon the ministers and church
members of any city that falls for his methods. The preachers simply
admit that they are not equal to the labor they are engaged in. They
must have a buffoon, a mountebank, whose methods are repugnant to those
who believe in the religion that is taught by the Bible. Billy Sunday
creates excitement that carries some folks off their feet for the time
being: no lasting results obtain. Those that will remember Billy Sunday
longest are those people who give up their money to him. Billy Sunday's
show has the Gift Show scheme distanced before the start."

Uncle Tom enjoyed his visit to Columbus greatly. On his last Sunday he
occupied the pulpit of the Evangelical Church on East Main Street. He
advised Alfred the day previous that he would preach a special
sermon--text, I Cor., Chapter 1, Verse 19: "I had rather speak five
words with my understanding that by my voice I might teach others also,
than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue."

After elaborating upon the text, he reached the pith of his sermon: "A
man out of place is only half a man. His nature is perverted. He becomes
restless and discontented and his life is made a failure, while the same
person might have made a success of all his undertakings if he had been
properly placed. As a rule, that which one likes best to do is his
forte. No man can be wholly successful in this life until he finds his
place. Some men glide into their proper sphere as naturally as the birds
of the air fly, or fish in the deep swim. Others never ask the question
of themselves: 'What is my place? What shall I do that I may be content
to labor and succeed in the world?' Every man should ask himself: 'What
is my place? How shall I decide it? How shall I fill it that my life
shall not be a failure?' It may be difficult to answer this question.
The answer may not always be from the heart, that is, influenced by
sincerity. Ignorance or lack of ambition may prompt an answer and
failure follow. Though difficult to answer, the question must be
answered by all. 'What is my right place in the labor of this world? How
shall I find it? How shall I succeed in it?' But few men can be really
successful and discontented--contentment is success.

"Education and civilization will have found their highest value in this
world when every man has chosen his proper work; work for which he is
fitted by nature and inclination. How many boys have had their
aspirations checked, their longings silenced, by loving but misguided
parents and friends? How many boys, who might have attained eminence in
a calling they were fitted for, have been forced to fill a place that
was repugnant to their natures? There is not a day we do not see natural
ability checked by occupations that are not congenial to those engaged
in them. We can hardly conceive of a man or boy forced to do work they
loathe. Parents may feel they are fulfilling a highest duty when they
choose a profession or a calling they believe the best for their
children, but against which the whole nature of the boy revolts, and for
which they have no natural ability. If instinct and heart ask for a
blacksmithing trade, be a blacksmith; if for carpentry, be a carpenter;
if for the medical profession, be a doctor; if for music, be a musician.
There is nothing like filling your place in the labor of this world
successfully. If you cannot fill a higher position acceptably and
successfully, be content to choose a lower one. There's nothing more
creditable in this world than filling a small place in a large way. It
is better to be a first rate brick mason than a second rate lawyer.
Choose your calling in this world. Prosecute it with all the vigor in
your being. With a firm reliance in God and confidence in yourself
failure is impossible."

Neither Uncle Tom nor Alfred, in their conversation referred to the
sermon at dinner. Several complimented Uncle Tom on his sermon. As
Alfred looked across the table at the Uncle, they both smiled. Alfred
thought of another sermon he had sat under years previously, and it's
his opinion the Uncle had the same thought.

Uncle Tom sleeps in a little church yard in Virginia near the people he
loved so well, and that his views broadened in his last years only made
him more beloved by those for whom he always faithfully labored,
believing in the right as he saw it. He was an honest man, a consistent
Christian.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Not hurrying to, not turning from the goal.
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays the toll
To you and age, and travels on with cheer.

Uncle Madison, stage driver, soldier, planter, historian, a gentleman of
the old school; versed in the classics and current events, most positive
in his deductions. He fought every day and year of the Civil War for the
cause of the South. He had labored every day since Appomattox to better
the conditions he had been active in unsettling. The soul of honor, as
courtly as a king, as keen as a flint, as blunt as a sledge, as tender
as a child.

[Illustration: Uncle Madison]

It was telegraphed all over the country that A. P. Clayton, Mayor of St.
Joe, Mo., and Alfred, were behind the bars in Pittsburgh, Pa. Bill Brown
telegraphed W. E. Joseph, Masonic Temple, Columbus: "Clayton and Field
in jail here, will you help to get them out?" The answer was: "If
Clayton and Alfred are in jail, it's where they belong. W. E. Joseph."

Uncle Madison read of it in the newspapers. He reared and charged. "Bill
Brown nor no other man could put him in jail without suffering for it."
Alfred's explanation did not satisfy Uncle Madison. "It's only Bill's
way of having fun with his friends. No one that goes to Pittsburgh but
Bill plays some sort of a joke on him. We are glad to get off so easy.
We expected him to steal our clothes or have us indicted for
bootlegging. Why, there are a number of people in the west--good
people--who will not go east via Pittsburgh, fearing Bill's practical
jokes."

Pet Clayton, Imperial Potentate of the Shrine, was _compelled_ to visit
Pittsburgh in connection with his official duties. Clayton carried
Alfred with him as protection. Alfred, in his haste, forgot his dress
suit. Arriving in Pittsburgh only a few moments before the ceremonial
session, Bill insisted Alfred wear one of his (Bill's) dress suits; that
it was the rule of the Temple that all must wear dress suits to gain
admission. Bill is wider than Alfred, "thicker through," but not quite
as tall. There was too much space everywhere excepting in the length of
legs and arms of Bill's dress suit, as it encompassed Alfred. No coaxing
or lengthening of the suspenders or pulling at the sleeves could make
Alfred look other than ridiculous. After walking from the Ft. Pitt Hotel
to the Temple, the suit began to "set" to its new conditions. The legs,
seat and sleeves, were drawing up at every breath.

Bill, in introducing the visitors, kindly made apologies for the
condition of Clayton, and the appearance of Alfred, explaining that
Clayton had just come from Louisville, where he was booked for one night
only, but there was more to inspect than he had ever tackled before. He
also assured the Nobility that Alfred owned a dress suit but they would
not permit him to take it out of Columbus; that the suit Alfred wore was
one he had kindly loaned him and he hoped that if anything happened
Alfred those assembled would respect the clothes. When Alfred arose the
next morning to prepare for the automobile ride the local people had
tendered the visitors, his clothes were missing from the room. Bill
Brown and the committee were waiting. "Slip on your overcoat; that will
hide Bill's old suit. You won't be out of the automobile until you
return. This hotel will make that suit good. How much did it cost you?"
"Sixty dollars; well, we'll make them buy you a hundred dollar suit."

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