THE SALOON IN OUR TOWN
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.