WHY I AM A TOTAL ABSTAINER.
By Fred. D. Grant
[General Fred. D. Grant, in The Defender.] WHEN I was a boy, at school, and at West Point, I was made a pet because of the greatness of my father. I was given every opportunity to drink, and I did drink—some. As I got older and mixed with men, war-scarred veterans who fought with my father would come up, and, for the sake of old times, ask me to celebrate with them the glory of past events, and I did—some. Then when I was made Minister to Austria, the customs of the country and my official position almost compelled me to drink, always. I tried to drink with extreme moderation, because I knew that alcohol is the worst poison a man could take into his system, but I found out it was an impossibility to drink moderately. I could not say, when drink was placed before me: “No, I only drink in the morning,” or at certain hours. The fact that I indulged at all compelled me to drink every occasion, or be absurd. For that reason, because moderate drinking is a practical impossibility, I became an absolute teetotaler—a crank, if you please. I will not allow it even in my house. When a man can say, “I never drink,” he never has to drink, is never urged to drink, never offends by not drinking. At least that is my experience. Remember, I do not say, “Moderate drinking is harmful.” The fact is, maybe, it isn’t so harmful, but this fact is indisputable—the hard drinker was once a moderate drinker, and the chances are all against a moderate drinker remaining such, and I—well, I, for one, don’t propose to take such chances. I know a man—maybe two or three—who died a moderate drinker. The stuff didn’t seem to hurt him much. But the poor devils that I know, scores and scores of them, intelligent men, talented and all that, who have been ruined, disgraced, by the greatest curse of Christendom—drink! Ah, the picture is a sad one. In many respects a hard drinker is a safer man in the army—and elsewhere, too—than a moderate drinker; that is, one who gets drunk once a year or so. You see, a hard drinker is known. No important commission is ever his to execute. But your moderate drinker, why, he’s apparently capable. On the surface he’s all right. Consequently he’s given an important duty to perform. Then he drinks. He’s sure to just at that critical time, to steady his nerves—infernal idiocy—and fails ignominiously to himself and his family, and disastrously to others. Give me the sober man, the absolute teetotaler, every time. He’s dependable. If I had the greatest appointive powers in the country, no man would get even the smallest appointment from me unless he showed proof of his absolute teetotalism.