The Thirstin' Howl

Hoist one for John Robbins tonight

If you're anything like me, you'll be obeying your unslakeable thirst tonight and that's about all the reason you need. But if you want to lend a little solemnity to the occassion or feel the need to commemorate something or other, look no further.
Drink a toast to John Robbins, the first martyr sacrificed at the Altar of Temperance.

Once again, our old pal Neal Dow was in the thick of things, and the thing he was in the thick of was the Portland Rum Riot of 1855 and it went down pretty much like this:

As you'll recall, Neal Dow became the Mayor of Portland in 1851 and pushed the Maine Law that outlawed the manufacture and sale of alcohol in the state. By 1855, and with an eye on a berth on the Republican Party ticket as a possible Vice Presidential candidate, Dow created the "Intensified Maine Law" which allowed for, among other things, the interception of liquor in transit, as well as huge fines and prison for 1st offenders. The requirements to execute a warrant were also relaxed which allowed the authorities to pretty much poke its collective nose into anyplace that a little suspicion might lead it. In the words of an anonymous Portland poet (and many suspect Dow's own cousin):

"Mighty reformer! Oft the trump of Fame,
Blown by thyself, has sent abroad thy name!
Sublime Fanatic! Who to aid thy cause,
Slights trifles such as Constitutions, Laws!
O Pimp Majestic! Whose sharp gimlet eye,
All jugs concealed and demijohns can spy!
Astute Smell-fungus! Striving as a goal,
To poke thy nose in every dirty hole!
Pimp, Spy, Fanatic! Arrogant at heart!
Language would fail to draw thee as thou art!"

The words alone point to a growing animosity to Dow and his prohibitioning, but with all those exclamation marks, revolt must have been near at hand(!) And it was.

There was an exception to the Maine Law for alcohol used medicinally or in manufacturing, but the Intensified Maine Law specified that said liquor had to be sold by an authorized agent of the municipality. In May of 1855, Dow was the chairman of the committe to set up the agency store in City Hall and for some inexplicable reason, ordered $1600 worth of booze for the agency under his own name. The ramification was this: Once the agency was duly appointed, Dow would then transfer title from himself to the agent--an illegal transfer under the Intensified Maine Law, and thus subject to seizure and destruction. While Dow's personal peril was only a $20 fine and 30 days in jail, the political damage resulting in $1600 worth of booze getting flushed down the city's gutters could seriously hobble his future plans.

Boozers we may be, but these are the kinds of inconsistencies that our jellicated minds latch on to, and our bretheren in 1855 were no different. So on Saturday June 2nd, Portland's last distiller and two other anti-Dowists swore out a writ claiming that Dow posessed liquor for the purposes of an illegal sale. The judge issued the search and seizure warrant (the Intensified Maine Law having eliminated judicial discretion) and a deputy marshall was dispatched.

Dow's nose was in the wind and he quickly realized that something was afoot.

He frantically patched up some of his bureaucratic snafus--setting up the agency, signing over the alcohol to the city,etc--while a restless crowd gathered near City Hall hoping to witness the seizure and destruction of His booze. They may have been on the rambunctious side, even a little mischievous, and in the beginning, they probably meant no harm.
By 8:00 pm, some of the rowdier denizens of Portland joined the restless crowd and headed to where the liquor was stored, shouting and cursing Dow's name, and pelting the building with rocks and ignoring the Sherrif's reading of the Riot Act.
By 10:00 pm upwards of a thousand spectatators had joined the 50 or so active beligerents.
Dow had now fortified the few policemen with a couple of dozen Light Guard and was expecting a reinforcement from the Rifle Guard at any minute.

"Brandishing a watchman's hook, Dow loudly commanded the crowd to disperse. From out of the darkness, the hated mayor received in reply a shower of oaths, hisses and stones. As missiles injured two militiamen, Dow flew into a frenzy. Without seeking the legally-required concurrence of the sheriff or an alderman, he shouted a comand to fire into the dense mass of rioters and spectators. The militiamen, however, waited for their captain to repeat the order. Turning to Dow, Captain Green asked, "must I fire, for its [sic] hard to shoot our own citizens." The mayor replied, "wait a minute". He later claimed that he intended only to frighten the crowd. At Green's insistence, Dow then led away the Light Guards to seek reinforcements"
Prophet of Prohibition: Neal Dow and His Crusade--Frank L Byrne

Buttressed by the addition of 30 Rifle Guards, the reformed Quaker rallied his troops: "I want every man of you to mark your man. We'll see whether mob law shall rule here, or whether your Chief Magistrate shall!" and they made for the liquor store where the mob was about to breach the doors.

The mayor and the Rifle Guards clattered down the stairs to the rescue....Leading them into the Agency's Middle Street entrance, he halted the militiamen within the darkened store. Several rock-throwers were visible through the opposite door. Dow shrieked an order to fire and three ragged volleys ripped along the length of the store into nearly-empty Congress Street. During the shooting, Dow took three Rifle Guards into the cellar to fire up through the window gratings but found no targets. He then withdrew his men through the Middle Street door, helped them to reload their muskets and finally ordered Captain Roberts to clear stragglers from the neighborhood with the bayonet. The prohiibitionist mayor had won his battle to protect the legal liquor-store.
Prophet of Prohibition: Neal Dow and His Crusade--Frank L Byrne

After the skirmish, snacking on cheese and crackers in the liquor Agency, Dow is told that seven people were wounded and one had died. He is famously cited for casually asking, "Was the body (at least) Irish?"
No, is the reply, the deceased was "American".

So join me in toasting John Robbins tonight. Just 22, a mate on a fishing boat, born and raised on Maine's Deer Isle, and Martyred to the cause of Intemperance.

Here's Champagne to our real friends
And Real Pain to our Sham friends!

Hear! Hear!