“O Children of New England, Poor Hearts; You are going to Hell indeed: But will it not be a dreadful thing to go to Hell from New England?”
TITLE OF “THE GLASS OF WHISKEY”
THE
GLASS OF WHISKEY.
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
No. 146 Chestnut Street.
Mr. Eames, with generosity equaling Mr. Harper’s, has filled many of the crevices of my collection with the most interesting gifts. I can’t say that I altogether approve of the generous impulses of these two gentlemen—except when it applies to myself! It is very bad for the book business. If bookmen were encouraged to go about giving away their precious finds, what would we poor booksellers do?
This reminds me of the long chase I had for Heavenly Spirits for Youthful Minds some time ago. A customer in Yonkers wrote to me saying he had this very rare book, supposed to have been issued by an old Kentucky press in 1800. I was very keen to see it, so I motored to his home at my first opportunity. When I arrived he pointed toward the shelves at one end of his library. I saw with delight and envy the long-sought volume, but when I took hold of it I was chilled. It felt decidedly clammy. Then, as my friend burst out laughing, I realized it was a porcelain jug made in the exact shape of a book! The joke was on me.
My disappointment was not too great, however, as the Heavenly Spirits was filled with mundane ones—Old Crow whiskey. I accepted it as gracefully as I could, but I no longer use this imitation volume for whiskey—I want something larger. Nor would I want to fill it from the Glass of Whiskey, a tract published for youthful minds in Philadelphia in 1830. This tiny yellow-covered pamphlet is but two inches square. The artist who drew the illustrations indicated, with his picture of a bunch of grapes beneath the title, that he knew little or nothing of the inspirational sources of whiskey. Perhaps his innocence secured him the job. Small boys freely imbibing, and the resultant fruits thereof, are neatly portrayed. With what fascination and horror little children must have read:—
There is a bottle. It has something in it which is called Whiskey. Little reader, I hope you will never taste any as long as you live. It is a poison. So is brandy, so is rum, so is gin, and many other drinks. They are called strong drink. They are so strong that they knock people down and kill them. They are sometimes called ardent spirits, that is burning spirits. They burn up those who drink them.
The appropriate ending must have sent many a tot in search of a pencil to sign the pledge: “O, how shall I keep from being a drunkard? I will tell you. Never drink a drop of anything that makes people drunk.”
I made my first find in children’s books when I was but a child myself. A playmate of mine had an aunt who lived on Broad Street in Philadelphia. We passed her house daily, on the way to and from school. Sometimes we were invited to stop for lunch. One day I happened to notice a pile of small books on her sitting-room table. She said she kept them there to amuse the younger children of her family. Although she knew I came from bookish people, she seemed surprised that I, a boy of twelve, should be interested in old volumes. As I could hardly put them down, she was evidently impressed; she offered them to me. You may well believe that I took them and rushed out of the house, lest she change her mind. When I reached home and my uncle saw what I had been lucky enough to receive, he exclaimed at their rarity. My treasure trove comprised three wonderful little volumes. They were Black Giles, The Cries of Philadelphia, and a rare edition of Babes in the Wood.