I simply judge from what I’ve seen. When I moved to this backwoods
village, six years ago, the hotel was the only industry in town—turning
out “skates.” One of the daily patrons of the hotel bar was brother to
a millionaire of Central Pennsylvania. I asked him one day if he didn’t
envy his brother the great wealth he had piled up, but “Uncle Enoch”
gave me a little dance on the flag stone in front of the post office and
remarked: “Phil never had the good time in life that I am having. Besides
this, he’s twenty years older than I am, which are good for at least five
hundred jolly times. Without a sou or a picayune in my pockets, I’m as
happy as a king, so long as I can work the crowd for a drink.”
Well, who can say how much “Uncle Enoch’s” light-hearted manner cheered
the plodding people, who worked year in and year out for a bare
existence? I have seen men laugh at his drunken pranks who hadn’t given
birth to a pleasant smile for weeks.
But somewhere in the world a deserted wife ekes out her own living at
slavish toil, because of Enoch’s love of the cup that cheers. And in his
sober hours I have heard “Uncle Enoch” lament the loss of his companion,
declaring that she was a good wife, and that the fault was all his own.
This country hotel made a splendid stopping place for the sporting
lawyers and business men of the nearest city, and no questions were
asked when several automobile loads of sports and loudly dressed females
stopped and engaged the ball room for a dance. “Uncle Enoch” would join
them and dance in a corner, while the set was going through the whirling
waltz, and sometimes stop the dance while he sang “My Bonny Black Bess.”
Several other local characters patronized the bar and thought they were
having a good time, but when seen next day in their homes, where poverty
and squalor and ragged children predominated, one could easily see that
their “good time” for one night cut a great gash into the bare comforts
of life during the next two weeks. And the wife and children, who had no
good time at all, were obliged to share in his regrets and poverty even
longer than he; for he went out to work amongst the farmers, and was well
fed, while the children and mother ate the scant supply of food in the
neglected home.
The second year after my arrival in the village the new Methodist
minister took sick and his wife ran over to my house to borrow some
brandy. I had none, but said I would go down to the hotel and get my
private bottle filled, and lend it to them. The landlord said he was
out of brandy, but had some extra good whiskey for fifty cents a pint.
Knowing the minister had severe cramps, I took the substitute and hurried
home, leaving the bottle at the minister’s house, and telling his wife
to use all the liquor she needed, and when the bottle was empty, I would
have it refilled.
Next day the minister was up and around again, and his wife brought the
flask home. It was almost full. The new minister was, no doubt, a good
judge of whiskey, and preferred to take chances with death, rather than
drink much of the vile stuff masquerading as whiskey.
After that time I was not very friendly to the hotel man. I had gone on
his petition to the court for a license to sell whiskey and beer, and
the stuff he sold me to save the minister’s life was neither. Afterwards
a neighbor’s wife took sick and we doped her with the contents of that
bottle, and she got well. Being no judge of liquor, she thought it was
all right, and her faith cured her.
Towards fall business became slack, the stock of whiskey became so low
in the jugs that there was spontaneous combustion, the insurance policy
took fire, and the hotel, with all its contents, except the most valuable
things which were stored in trunks and left near the door, were consumed
by fire.
Since then the town has been dry; “Uncle Enoch” is satisfied with an
occasional jag on hard cider, the wives and mothers look happier, the
children are better clothed, and we buy our medicinal liquor at the city
drug stores and pay five times more than it is worth.
My honest belief is, that the saloon could be easily dispensed with, if
the government would place on sale sealed bottles of genuine rye whiskey
for medicinal purposes, at a fair price. I do not believe in prohibition
to the full letter of the law. Whiskey is a medicine, and we need it just
as badly as we need any other poisonous drug. I am subject to chills, and
whiskey is the best remedy I ever discovered for chills. The only bad
effect is that the more whiskey I have in the house, the more frequent
are my attacks of chills. I use more caution, too—I take a jigger
occasionally to prevent the very first symptoms of a chill.