XXX THE COLONELS
A CONVIVIAL MEETING OF LAWYERS—HILARITY SMOTHERED BY THE MAINE LAW—A FAINTING WAYFARER IS REFUSED A DRINK IN A MAINE VILLAGE— THE APOTHECARY DEMANDS A PHYSICIAN'S PRESCRIPTION—SNAKE-BITES IN GREAT DEMAND.
Some years ago, I spent a few weeks of inclement weather in a beautiful village in southern Georgia. Upon calling at his office to renew my acquaintance with a well-known lawyer, he soon invited in the remaining members of the local bar. Everything was propitious, and the conversation never for a moment flagged, many experiences of the legal practitioners of the South and of the North being related with happy effect.
I at length remarked that since my arrival, I had, somewhat to my surprise, learned that "local option" had been adopted in their county. An aged brother, in a tone by no means exultant, assured me that such was the fact. I then observed that I was not a hard drinker, but being a total stranger and liable to sudden sickness, I asked what I would do under such circumstances.
An equally venerable brother, who bore the unique title of "Colonel," slowly responded, "Have to do without, sir, have to do without; not a drop to be had in the county, absolutely not a drop, sir."
The brief silence which followed this announcement was broken by the corroborative testimony of a more youthful associate of similar official distinction, and a genial and hospitable expression of countenance, somehow suggesting memories of old cognac.
"Yes, sir, the use of spirituous liquors is now only a tradition with us; but I have heard my father say, that before the war, the indulgence in such hospitality was not uncommon among gentlemen."
At the conclusion of still further cumulative testimony of the same tenor, I remarked that something about the general situation reminded me of an incident that occurred in a State far to the north while the "Maine Law" was in operation.
A dilapidated-looking pedestrian, with a pack on his back, early one afternoon of a hot July day pulled up in front of the post-office in a small village in the interior of Maine. Humbly addressing a citizen who was just coming out with his copy of the Weekly Tribune in hand, he inquired,
"Where can I get a drink?"
"The Maine Law is in force," was the reply, "and it is impossible for you to get a drink in the State."
The heart of the wayfarer sank within him.
"Would you let a man die right here on your streets, for lack of a drink?"
The "better angel" of the citizen being touched thereat, he replied,
"My friend, I am very sorry for you, but no liquor is ever sold here, except by the apothecary, and then only as a medicine."
Upon further inquiry, the important fact was disclosed that the shop of the apothecary was three-quarters of a mile away, on the left-hand side of the road. With an alacrity indicating something of hope, the pedestrian immediately gathered up his pack, and through the dust and heat at length reached the designated place. Sinking apparently exhausted upon the door-step, he feebly requested the man behind the counter to let him have something to drink. The immediate reply of the apothecary was that the Maine Law was in force, and no spirituous liquors could be sold except upon the prescription of a physician. After earnest inquiry, it was ascertained that the nearest doctor's office was one mile away, and the man with the pack again betook himself to the weary highway. Returning an hour later, in tone more pitiful than before, he begged the apothecary, as he hoped for mercy himself, to let him have a drink. Upon inquiry as to whether he had procured the required certificate, he said, "No, the doctor wouldn't give me any."
The assurance of the apothecary that the case appeared hopeless only added to the distress of the poor man, whose sands seemed now indeed to be running low.
Stirred to the depths by the agony of his visitor, the apothecary at length said,
"My friend, I would be glad to help you, but it is impossible for me to let you have a drink of spirituous liquor unless you have a doctor's certificate or have been snake-bit."
At the last-mentioned suggestion, the face of the man of repeated disappointments measurably brightened, and he eagerly inquired where he could find a snake. The now sympathetic man of bottles told him to follow the main road three miles to the forks, and then a few hundred yards to the west, and he would find a small grove of decayed tress, where there still lingered a few snakes, and by the exercise of a reasonable degree of diligence he might manage to get bit, and thereby lay the foundation for the desired relief. With bundle again in place, and evincing a buoyancy of manner to which he had been a stranger for many hours, the traveller resumed the quest.
Hours later, when the shadows had lengthened, and the fire-flies were glistening in the distance,
"With a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors,"
he re-entered the apothecary's shop, threw down his bundle, and in tones suggestive of the agony of lost souls, again begged for a drink.
"Did you get snake-bit?" was the feeling inquiry of the man at the helm.
"No," was the heart-rending reply, "every snake I met had engagements six months ahead, for all the bites he could furnish!"