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VOLUME ONE.
NO. THIRTY-TWO.
WHISKEY DOWN—PROPERTY UP.
T makes the blood tingle just to pass
through the prosperous counties of Wil
cox and Irwin, in Georgia, and see with
your own eyes the striking change for
the better since the saloon and the dis
pensary were driven out!
Last year, the first thing that greeted
the eye—yes, and the “nose”—of the
traveler as he alighted from the cars
I
at Abbeville, was a wretched barroom right
at the depot, with its fumes and its fuss, its
topers and its loafers. Now that self-same
house is filled with the necessities of life, a legiti
mate, wholesome business is being done, and the
money that went for liquor, sorrow and horror is
now buying health and happiness for bodies, hearts
and homes. While the saloons held their bloody,
debauching scepter over the town, the whiskey sym
pathizers declared that Abbeville would be ruined
from a business standpoint if the saloons should
be stopped. They were stopped in December. But,
as is always true, the merchants declare that their
Christmas trade was better than it had ever been,
while not a single arrest for drunkenness was made
during Christmas week.
And the former whiskey friends—the few that
can be found—are all compelled to admit that Ab
beville is a new town—cleaner in its life, happier
in its homes, stronger in its commerce and certainly
a far safer atmosphere for that thriving institu
tion, the Georgia Normal and Business College, witu
its hundreds of students every year.
Rochelle, too, another wide-awake and growing
town in Wilcox county, is taking on new life since
whiskey was driven out; and Seville, poor little
rum-cursed, whiskey-soaked Seville, that was so long
an eye-sore for decent people who traveled the Sea
board from Cordele to Abbeville—Seville whose
three saloons seemed to dominate all other business
until the outraged people of that precinct arose in
their might and smashed them to death by a major
ity of ten to one—Seville, thank God and the mili
tant voters, stands purified and redeemed!
Ocilla—Fair, Beautiful Ocilla!
There is not a better town of fifteen hundred peo
ple in Georgia, or the South, than Ocilla. Four
years ago, when I helped Pastor W. J. Barton in
a gracious meeting, saloons blotted and blighted the
face of the town. Many of the strongest men of
the community were converted. Their leadership
began to tell for the public virtue and civic right
eousness. They said the barrooms must go. They
did go—but the Dispensary came instead. For a
time the decent people seemed pleased. Less
drinking, they said, and “the dear school fund” of
the town received a handsome purse from the dis
pensary. “Long live the dispensary!” But it was
noted by keen observers that liquor from the “dar
ling dispensary” kept on making people mighty
ATLANTA, GA., SEPTEMBER 27, 1906.
Wilcox and Irlvin rc( Bejore and Softer. ”
drunk (just as the fine liquor does from the Pied
mont bar in Atlanta). Debauched negroes and low
down white folks would congregate around the “dis
pensary of devilment,” blockade the corners and
then line the streets, until Saturday afternoon be
came a bedlam, and, Saturday night!—yes, a fore
runner of hell!
The sons of the men, and the husbands of the
best wives in the community were going down be
fore the “school-saving” dispensary. The spectacle
was heart-rending—the facts were intolerable!
The dispensary must go. Ocilla, Fitzgerald—lrwin
county must be free!
Hon. B. E. Wilcox, the stainless Christian gen
tleman who represented Irwin in the Legislature,
went to work, and he did not work alone. Hon.
George Wilcox, his stalwart kinsman over in the
Senate, went to work in that dignified and conser
vative body. The lines were drawn, the battle
was fierce, but victory came. And Georgia’s Chris
tian Governor, Joseph M. Terrell, signed the bill.
The dispensary went out of Ocilla and saloons
out of Fitzgerald—the old county of Irwin and the
new county of Ben Hill.
Ocilla, one of the most generous, unselfish towns
I have ever seen, is rejoicing that the dispensary
is closed, and her manly citizenship has determined
that the welfare of her splendid school shall not be
dependent on the bloody tax levied on the depravity
of drunken white men and carousing negroes. The
merchants declare that the cash trade has already
greatly improved while the Saturday nights of
bacchanalian revel have been converted into the
order and quiet of the former Sabbath day.
Some Funny Things at Fitzgerald.
The other day Colonel Tom Eason, of the Geor
gia Prison Commission, one of the most popular
men in the State, was moving from Mcßae to the
new county site of Ben Hill county. On his way
from the depot the hackman informed him that—
“ Fitzgerald is dead!”
“Why,” said the smiling Colonel, “I don’t see
anything of the funeral going on—looks like I
would have heard something of an event as im
portant as that.”
“But,” contended the hackman, “the town is
certainly ruined since whisky was put out. It is a
dead town, I tell you! There’s nothin’ doin’!”
Colonel Eason investigated the pedigree and pros
pects of the Fitzgerald citizen who would welcome
a new citizen with such a distressing, depressing
libel on a town that seemed so much alive, and lo!
that self-same hackman was found to be resting
right then under an indictment for running a “blind
tiger. ’ ’
Take another: The day after the bill killing the
saloons was signed by Governor Terrell a certain
real estate owner came down town “tearing his
By WILLIAM D. UPSHAW.
hair,” “wiping his eyes,” and covering the totter
ing, dying town with crepe.
“It is a shame—it is an outrage!” he declared.
“My hard-earned property is worth 25 per cent
less than it was yesterday, all because of the fanat
icism of these foolish temperance people. It is a
shame—a shame! I tell you. my property is down
25 per cent lower than it was yesterday.”
“ What will you take for that bouse and lot on
street?” The question was put by one
of those same “fanatical temperance men.”
“Four thousand dollars,” said the distressed
man, “I’ll take four thousand dollars!”
“I’ll take it,” said the temperance man quietly.
“Come to my office and draw the deeds and I will
write you a check.” , ~
The temperance man waited in his office, but
the distressed real estate dealer did not appear.
Whereupon the purchaser wrote the check, made
out the deed and proceeded to look up the real
estate man to get his signature. Then there was a
straight back-down and the legally purchased house
is yet allowed to remain, enhanced in value, in the
hands of the man who was wantonly tying crepe
on the door of his own property.
And another rising financier—a fine young fellow
who had just allowed the devil to put some sand
in his eyes on the whisky business, offered a lot for
a thousand dollars several months ago.
A few days after whisky went out he was asked
what he would take for this same lot.
“Three thousand dollars,” was his quick reply.
Then quoth the temperance jnan: “Why, I
thought you said if the saloons were’Vlosed it would
hurt the value of property. Why have you gone
up on yours?”
And the young financier was “speechless.”
The truth is, he is a royal spirit—he is an hon
est man, and conscience has begun to get in her
work.
Editor Jesse Mercer, of The Fitzgerald Enter
prise is jubilant over the downfall of barrooms, and
the consequent up-building of the famous “Colony
City.” And E. F. Chambless, the faithful and
fearless President of the Law ami Order League,
declares that for the sake of the good name of the
town and the boys of the present and the future,
the brave men of the town will see to it—as the
citizens of any community can do if they will—
that “blind tigers” are exterminated and the law
is enforced!
A Ringing Declaration.
Every such movement has its genesis—its pivotal,
quickening initial hour.
In looking through the minutes of the Little River
Association during my recent visit to Ocilla, I
found the “Report on Temperance” which, more
than anything else, perhaps, started the fire to
burning in Wilcox and Irwin counties. That report
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