Rum has always been a curse to the State of Maine. The steady fight
that Maine has made, for a century past, against decent rum, has been
worthy of a better cause.
Who hath woe? who hath sorrow and some more things of that kind? He that
monkeyeth with Maine rum; he that goeth to seek emigrant rum.
In passing through Maine the tourist is struck with the ever-varying
styles of mystery connected with the consumption of rum.
In Denver your friend says: "Will you come with me and shed a tear?" or
"Come and eat a clove with me."
In Salt Lake City a man once said to me: "William, which would you
rather do, take a dose of Gentile damnation down here on the corner, or
go over across the street and pizen yourself with some real old Mormon
Valley tan, made last week from ground feed and prussic acid?" I told
him that I had just been to dinner, and the doctor had forbidden my
drinking any more, and that I had promised several people on their death
beds never to touch liquor, and besides, I had just taken a large drink,
so he would have to excuse me.
But in Maine none of these common styles of invitation prevail. It is
all shrouded in mystery. You give the sign of distress to any member in
good standing, pound three times on the outer gate, give two hard kicks
and one soft one on the inner door, give the password, "Rutherford B.
Hayes," turn to the left, through a dark passage, turn the thumbscrew of
a mysterious gas fixture 90 deg. to the right, holding the goblet of the
encampment under the gas fixture, then reverse the thumbscrew, shut your
eyes, insult you digester, leave twenty-five cents near the gas fixture,
and hunt up the nearest cemetery, so that you will not have to be
carried very far.
If a man really wants to drink himself into a drunkard's grave, he can
certainly save time by going to Maine. Those desiring the most prompt
and vigorous style of jim-jams at cut rates will do well to examine
Maine goods before going elsewhere. Let a man spend a week in Boston,
where the Maine liquor law, I understand, is not in force, and then,
with no warning whatever, be taken into the heart of Maine; let him
land there a stranger and a partial orphan, with no knowledge of the
underground methods of securing a drink, and to him the world seems very
gloomy, very sad, and extremely arid.
At the Bangor depot a woman came up to me and addressed me. She was
rather past middle age, a perfect lady in her manners, but a little
full.
I said: "Madame, I guess you will have to excuse me. You have the
advantage. I can't just speak your name at this moment. It has been now
thirty years since I left Maine, a child two years old. So people have
changed. You've no idea how people have grown out of my knowledge. I
don't see but you look just as young as you did when I went away, but
I'm a poor hand to remember names, so I can't just call you to mind."
She was perfectly ladylike in her manner, but a little bit drunk. It is
singular how drunken people will come hundreds of miles to converse with
me. I have often been alluded to as the "drunkard's friend." Men have
been known to get intoxicated and come a long distance to talk with me
on some subject, and then they would lean up against me and converse by
the hour. A drunken man never seems to get tired of talking with me. As
long as I am willing to hold such a man up and listen to him, he will
stand and tell me about himself with the utmost confidence, and, no
matter who goes by, he does not seem to be ashamed to have people see
him talking with me.
I once had a friend who was very much liked by every one, so he drifted
into politics. For seven years he tried to live on free whiskey and
popular approval, but it wrecked him at last. Finally he formed the
habit of meeting me every day and explaining it to me, and giving me
free exhibitions of a breath that he had acquired at great expense.
After he got so feeble that he could not walk any more, this breath of
his used to pull him out of bed and drag him all over the town. It don't
seem hardly possible, but it is so. I can show you the town yet.
[Illustration: 0107]
He used to take me by the buttonhole when he conversed with me. This is
a diagram of the buttonhole.
If I had a son I would warn him against trying to subsist solely on
popular approval and free whiskey. It may do for a man engaged solely in
sedentary pursuits, but it is not sufficient in cases of great muscular
exhaustion. Free whiskey and popular approval on an empty stomach are
highly injurious.